The Wonder
by Aalon
Summary: Set in Season 5, this is an AU take on the Watershed episode, where a different decision by Castle can yield different stories, and different outcomes. Multi-Chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**The Wonder: 1**

**A/N:** Watershed, from Season5, was another of those crossroads episodes that left me scratching my head. I never begrudged Kate Beckett for wanted more out of her career, for wanting to achieve more. Neither did Castle. I just thought it was so consistent with her history to exclude Castle from the entire decision process until her hand was forced. And though I love these two together, it is another of those scenarios where I thought he should have reacted differently. So, in this new AU, we go in that 'slightly' different direction than what unfolded in the show, and see where it takes us.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Kate Beckett's Apartment, May 14, 2013**_

Richard Castle's hands are starting to shake, as he stares at the crumpled boarding pass in his hand. He shakes his head, and the movement is subtle, almost imperceptible.

"_I should have known this was too good to be true,"_ he thinks to himself. Immediately, he brushes the thought away.

"_Give her a chance . . . I've been known to over-react."_

He holds the boarding pass out, asking the question, and dreading the answer that he knows is coming. She won't sit here and lie to him. Not to his face. She wouldn't do that. Not again.

Would she?

"You fly to D.C. yesterday?"

She takes a breath. _"Here we go,"_ she thinks.

"Yes, I did."

She offers nothing more. No explanation of the trip. No explanation of why she hid the trip from him. It's not like she has to check in with him, but he thought – incorrectly, it seems – that just simple courtesy would have caused her to say something.

So he has to ask.

"Why?"

It's the simplest, most damning question anyone can ask. One single, dangerous word. A word usually filled with so much more than a single sentence will suffice. But he has to ask.

"I was invited down for an interview."

Okay, that doesn't sound too bad. He isn't surprised that someone outside the 12th Precinct would see value in Kate Beckett.

"What kind of interview?" he asks, genuinely curious, but also a little concerned. Not concerned that she is out interviewing. But concerned that this is how he is finding out about it. Concerned that she would hide this from him. She didn't need to hide this. This is good news for her.

She stares at him, never breaking eye contact. She knows this is important, and she knows this is absolutely not how she wanted him to find out about this. She should have said something earlier. Of course, she should have. Everything is always that obvious after the fact.

"For a position with the Federal Task Force," she responds, her voice clear and strong. This is good news, this is a great opportunity for her.

"I'm sorry," he says, and she knows it's on now. Any thought, any hope that she had that this would be a quick and easy conversation, a quick discussion and a quicker kiss and make up . . . those hopes are gone with those two words. She sees it in his eyes. The hurt. The confusion. But she doesn't understand why they are there.

Not yet.

"I'm sorry . . . you interviewed for another job . . . in another city," he says. "And you didn't tell me about it?"

"_Well, you make it sound bad when you say it like that_," she thinks to herself, defensively. Now, her natural evolved self-preservation kicks in and takes over the conversation.

"I didn't tell you about it because it was just an interview," she says, "and I knew that you would be upset."

"Your damn right I'm upset," he says, and that's when everything falls apart. An entire year of kisses, hands held, romantic dinners, fantastic lovemaking, even better sex . . . an entire year of brilliant theories together, of trips taken, of cases closed.

All in the rear view mirror. For both of them.

"Castle, I just wanted to see what was out there . . ." she says, now with a slight bit of tension in her voice. Perhaps she can plead to his logic. His heart is hurting. She should have known it would. Appeal to his head, to his logic.

". . . what's wrong with that?" she asks.

He can't believe the question. She can't be this dense. She can't be this selfish. And it hits him. Yeah, she can be. She has been before.

"What's wrong with it is that you _hid_ it from me," he tells her, shaking his head. "In fact, you _lied_ about it."

He pauses, and for the first time, the hurt breaks free and shows itself in his words and in his face.

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"Castle, this isn't about you. This is about me. This is about my life."

Hours later, as she revisits the conversation in her head, this is the one thing she wishes she could take back. As the words leave her mouth, she sees the damage being done, instantaneously. He looks at her incredulously. Is she kidding? She must be kidding. It's happening all over again. Lying when it suits her.

And it's not about him?

Of course not. It's never about him. It's never _been_ about him. It's always been about her mother; about when she's ready; about her feelings; about her secrets. It's never been about him. But he realizes that it's not even about _them_. Only her. Always only her. Do _'they'_ mean anything to her at all?

His mind is racing now. He feels foolish. A dangerous place for a man to be. Hurtful, stupid things come out of the mouth of a foolish-feeling man. He starts to say something – then catches himself. Another word is ready to come forth, but he squashes that one also. Finally, defeated, he asks the question that isn't really what he wants to know. But it will keep the conversation going.

"So you're seriously considering this?" he says, as a statement more than a question.

"Yes, this is a wonderful opportunity," she says. Perhaps he's starting to see the light here. Perhaps there is a chance, yet. "It will be a chance to do more."

"Without me," he says.

Kate is slowly becoming more exasperated. This isn't going well at all. This is exactly why she didn't say anything up to now.

"Castle, please don't do this," she says. "Please don't make this about us."

And thus, the final shoe falls. For a minute, it is almost two years ago all over again. He's back in her hospital room, being summarily dismissed, as she lies and tells him she doesn't remember anything, she tells him that she'll call him.

"I'm sorry," he says, now finally beyond just the hurt and confusion and the aggravation. Now the anger is here. "Tell me how this _isn't _about us," he says, emphatically.

"You get this job, you move to D.C. I'll never see you. That's pretty much the end of our relationship isn't it."

Okay, that's a reach, an over-exaggeration. Never see her? Still, he is hurting and he is pissed off; an unhealthy combination.

"You don't know that," she tells him, now clearly frustrated. She pauses, then adds, "and I probably won't get the job anyway."

"That's not the point," he tells her, now back on track. "The point is . . . you knew what this could mean," he states, and now the realization of what this means starts to really hit him, as the words flow from his mouth.

"And it never occurred to you to include me," he says. And that's the gist of it. That's the problem. Her and her damn secrets. He has experienced those secrets first hand. He idly wonders just how long it would have been before she told him about this opportunity had he not found her boarding pass. She lied for almost a year before. She's good at this. She's good at secrets.

"_Damn her, this should have been great news," _he thinks to himself. _"We should have been celebrating an opportunity like this . . . drawing up pros and cons in bed, wine glasses in hand, planning the next steps in our future together . . ."_

And that's when it hits him. Oh God, it's even worse . . .

"Or worse," he says with horrifying realization. "It _did _occur to you, and you chose not to," he says softly. "Now what does that say about us."

He's done now. He has to get out of there. He knows his temper, and he is just ready to explode. He will say things – things that a simple _'I am sorry' _won't heal. Better to choose flight at this point. He grabs his jacket, and heads to the door.

"Not much if you ask me," he says, settling for a simple retreat.

"Castle," Kate says, trying to pull him back. This isn't how she wants to leave this. Unfinished.

"I can't be here right now," he says, and even he knows he sounds like a little boy who has just taken his ball, ready to go home. But he is angry – justifiably so. Better to react like a little kid than an angry man who lashes out – physically or emotionally.

He walks out, wondering how much damage they have done.

_**Two Days Later, at a Familiar Swing Set, in the park, May 16, 2013**_

He sits on one of the swing sets, waiting for her to arrive. She called him about half an hour ago, saying they needed to talk.

"_Understatement of the century,"_ he thinks. _"That's certainly not going in the book."_

Truthfully, he's not sure how this is going to go. His conversation yesterday with Martha Rogers wasn't all that helpful. She has made some solid points, sure.

No, they haven't had any serious conversations about their future.

No, they haven't made any serious plans about their future.

But that's no excuse for lying. That's no excuse for secrets. If his mother is trying to tell him that until two people fully commit, then lying is okay, secrets are okay, those things don't matter "until you put a ring on her . . ."

If that's what she is saying, well, hell, no wonder his mother never re-married. That's no way to develop a loving, trusting relationship. Yeah, he's twice divorced, but come on, even he knows that much.

She did make a good point, though. Perhaps he _has_ been holding back all this time. Perhaps he really _hasn't_ expected it to work out, long-term. God knows he loves her. But maybe deep, deep down, he really hasn't trusted her. And isn't this a good reason why he's never fully committed to her, as Martha had said?

He rubs his hands together, and on the tight swing, which he barely fits into, by the way, he can feel the small box in his inside jacket pocket, rubbing against his chest.

He's really not sure which way this is going to go yet.

He feels her walking to him – literally feels her presence – before he sees her out of the corner of his eye. For some reason, he can't even bring himself to look at her. He sees the soft smile she tries to offer – again, out of the corner of his eye. Her peace offering. It's always worked. It's always melted him, like wax, like butter.

Not today. It's now – at this point – that his decision crystalizes for him.

She's walking slowly to him, and reaching him, sits on the swing next to him. He continues staring ahead, wringing his hands in his lap.

She's not sure what to make of this. She's tried smiling, and that hasn't worked. She tries another approach.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I shouldn't have kept secrets," she admits, and she means it. She knows it is dangerous for them. She lied to him, kept a dark secret for almost a year. To make matters worse, he harbored his own secret during that time as well. If there are two people who should know the dangers that secrets hold, it's these two.

Yet here they are.

So yeah, she means it when she tells him.

"I shouldn't have kept secrets."

"It's who you are," he says simply, and they both can see the handwriting scratching the air now. She sucks in a quick breath, while he lets a breath fly out that he didn't realize he was holding.

"You don't let people in," he tells her. "I've had to scratch and claw for every inch," he says, regret oozing with each word.

"Castle-"

"Please, let me finish," he tells her.

She hates this. It's the most important conversation of her life, and she has lost complete control of it. She called and told him they needed to talk. She has the whole script written out in her head. But he's taken her script and tossed it to the wind.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking about us . . . about our relationship, what we have," he says, wistfully, and still – dammit – not looking at her.

"Where we're headed," he pauses. "I've decided I want more. We both deserve more."

She'll make it easy. Easy for both of them.

"I agree," she says, with sad resignation.

"This is a fantastic opportunity for you," he tells her, finally – _finally_ looking at her, giving her a glimpse of those blue eyes she longs for. Looking at her is difficult. She is so gorgeous. He always gets lost in those eyes, in that smile. It has been such a great year. The box in his pocket calls him, it screams at him for freedom, for release.

He pulls his jacket tighter.

"Did you get the job?" he asks.

"Yes," she answers – and they don't break eye contact. She tries a smile again. Maybe . . .

He smiles back – it's small, it's not the Castle bright burner, but it is there. It's something.

"Take it. You deserve it. You need it. Getting away from New York is probably a good thing right now," he tells her. "You've accomplished everything you can at the 12th. And you're right, you can do so much more. You can do good things, _better_ things."

"Thank you, Castle," she tells him, genuinely surprised and grateful at the generous tone he offers to her, the kind words spoken honestly.

"I really want to take it, I really do," she says. "But I-"

"No buts, Kate," he interrupts. "Take it. There's nothing more important for you, to you, than this."

Her face flushes quickly, reddening not with anger, but with frustration. He can't put words in her mouth. He can't do this, he can't make this decision for her.

"That's not true –"

"It is, Kate. It is," he tells her.

It's disarming to her because this isn't the angry Castle from a couple of days ago. This isn't even the hurt Castle, or the disappointed Castle. It's almost like he . . . no, it can't be that. Surely he still cares about her . . .

"Kate, you were ready to make this decision without me. You got on a plane, took an interview, made your internal list of pros and cons, thought it out back and forth . . . all without me," he tells her. Hearing it put in such succinct terms tears at her. She sees the truth in his words.

"I hate that, I wish it weren't so . . . but it is what it is. And you are who you are . . . and I am who I am," he says, and finally a bit of emotion cracks through. Her heart is breaking.

So is his.

"You will always have your secrets, those things secret places where I want to be, where I think I belong . . . and I will always fight to get in there . . . and we will always fight about those secrets."

He stands now, and he pulls his jacket closed, fastening the buttons. The tightness of the box on his chest hurts. It is a reminder of what was. Of what might have been. Of what might be someday.

But not today.

"Or we can agree that it's time for you to move on to the next step in your great journey. A journey that is good for you, a journey that you deserve."

"What about you, Rick?" she asks, her eyes moist, as she can see the glistening in his eyes as well. "What about –"

"It's like you said the other day," he states, finality in his tone. "This isn't about me. This is about you, about your life. Maybe someday, someone will be a bigger, deeper part of that life. Maybe that someone will be me," he tells her as she stands and faces him.

He stretches his arms out, pulling her into a hug. He pulls back, and bends to kiss her. It's soft. Not very deep, but it lingers. He knows this will be the last time in a long while – perhaps ever, that he tastes these lips, and so he draws it out. She knows it as well, and so she lingers as well, and fights back a sob as she feels a tear drop on her face, realizing the tear is not her own. She opens her mouth, pushing her tongue forward –

And he breaks the embrace. That intimate invasion is not one he will allow. Not now. Not anymore. It's not who they are now. He wants more. He deserves more. So does she, and he knows she will realize this and believe it soon enough.

"Maybe that someone will be me," he repeats. "But not today. I love you, Kate. I know you will do well," he tells her.

And step by step, she watches him walk away.

"Castle," she tries to call out to him, but the single word catches in her throat, coming out as strangled, garbled nonsense.

Step by step, he walks away, across the street, and hails a cab.

Kate steps backward, and falls back into the swing. Her feet dangle along the ground, her mind numb – with no thoughts. For a minute she sits there, her momentum swinging her back and forth, back and forth.

One minute becomes two, and two becomes five. With each passing minute, the fog in her head lifts. He's right. It is a great opportunity. She deserves this. And he deserves more than she has just given him. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps these secrets she manages to keep are just a part of who she is.

She reaches into her purse, pulling out her cell phone, pulling up recent calls. She finds the latest entry for 'A Freedman' and punches the SEND button. She hears two rings before he answers.

"Deputy Director Anthony Freedman."

"Director Freedman, this is Detective Beckett in New York," she says, and then pauses for a few seconds. "When would you like me to start?"


	2. Chapter 2

**The Wonder: Chapter 2**

**A/N: **You may recall that ABC showed the two episodes leading up to the Watershed arc out of order. 'Still' was originally intended to air before 'The Squab and the Quail', but the network postponed 'Still' due to the bombing at the Boston Marathon. For the purposes of this AU, 'Still' aired in its intended slot, occurring before 'The Squab and the Quail'.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Break room at the 12**__**th**__** Precinct, May 16, 2013**_

"It's gotta be something pretty serious," says Javier Esposito to his friends who sit with him in the break room, holding a cup of freshly-brewed coffee, courtesy of one currently absent novelist.

He sits with Kevin Ryan and Lanie Parish, the precinct medical examiner who has just walked in and joined the conversation. He and Kevin are discussing their two other friends; one their boss and the other a man they have come to truly like and admire.

"They both seem a little off," Kevin had said earlier. They know that the two have had an argument; Kate has acknowledged that much. When Lanie sits down to join them, she really doesn't want to say anything. Kate is her best friend . . . but it's Javier, and they do have a . . . thing.

She tells them that Kate has an offer from D.C. to join a federal task force. The job calls for relocation.

"I didn't know she was looking," says Esposito, shocked at the news that Lanie has just shared.

"She wasn't," the medical examiner explains. "They came to her."

"What does Castle think?" asks Kevin Ryan. This explains a lot. "Is this why they are arguing?"

"I'm sure he'd rather she not go," Esposito adds, nodding his head. Yeah, this probably explains everything.

"Well, not exactly," Lanie tells them, raising an eyebrow from Esposito, while Ryan responds by sitting back in his chair.

"I think the bigger problem is that she just told him about the offer," Lanie says, shaking her head.

"What?" asks a surprised Esposito.

"When?" asks Ryan, simultaneously with his friend.

"Yesterday, I think," Lanie tells them.

"She did this behind his back?" an incredulous Esposito asks her. Ryan is grimacing now, knowing how important honesty and transparency is to their writer friend. Two failed marriages from ex-wives leaving you will do that to you.

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that," Lanie says, trying to support her best friend.

"Did he know she was interviewing?" Javier asks her, the disgust starting to show on his face.

"Well, no but –"

"Then she did it behind his back," he concludes, somewhat emphatically.

"Damn. I wouldn't have picked Beckett to do something like that," an equally disappointed Kevin Ryan adds, shaking his head.

"Well, I think it's all going to turn out okay," Lanie says, ignoring the disappointment oozing from her two friends. Castle and Beckett have overcome tougher situations than this. At least she thinks they have.

"I think he's going to propose to her," she continues. "Maybe he thinks that will keep her here."

"I don't know," says Ryan, not convinced, giving Esposito an odd glance.

"Why do you think he's proposing now?" Esposito asks.

Lanie briefly considers how much to say. It really isn't her information to share, and she's more or less in the confidence of two people not in this room. In the end, she decides she has already come this far, and her two friends sitting with her are going to find out soon enough now, anyway.

"I texted Castle the other day, after I talked with Kate and she told me about their argument," she says. "She told me he had gotten angry and walked out."

"Sounds like Castle," Esposito says, and both he and Ryan nod their heads in agreement.

"I asked him . . . I _told_ him that after five years, he's not gonna fight for our girl?" she says, with her trademark smirk. "He texted me back and said something along the lines of it 'being time to do the right thing, to be serious and stop playing around'. So I figure he's proposing."

"You may be right," Esposito says, still not completely convinced.

"Yeah, I could see him doing that," Ryan adds.

"Anyway, I figure between yesterday and today, he's had enough time to go find a ring," she says, smiling.

"Oh, he's had a ring," Javier says, to the clear and utter surprise of his on-again/off-again girl-friend.

"Yeah, and it's a real beaut," Ryan adds, smiling as he and his detective partner share a friendly fist bump across the table.

"What?" says the surprised medical examiner. She's not used to being out of the loop with inner gossip when it comes to her favorite detective and her boyfriend.

"You been holding out on me?" she asks, slight indignation in her voice, eyeing Esposito.

"Not my story to tell, girl, you know that," he tells her. Seeing her disappointment, he continues. "Anyway, you know you wouldn't have been able to keep this a secret from Beckett."

"Yes I would," she says, her eyes now starting to narrow, her tone threatening.

"C'mon, Lanie, you just blabbed to us about your whole conversation with Castle," Ryan states, trying to support his friend. Instead, he only gets a strong glare from Esposito.

"Well, she did!" Ryan continues, in defense of himself to his friend.

"Fellas! What ring?" Lanie says impatiently, trying to bring the conversation back to this new development.

"He got it for her about a month or so ago," Esposito answers.

"Right after they got Beckett off that bomb in that apartment," Ryan adds.

"He thought he had lost her that day, and when he didn't, he took it as another second chance - as a sign that he needed to man up and make the commitment," Esposito says, remembering Castle's words to them, as he shares this, glancing at his partner.

"Went out at got it the next day," Ryan adds. "Took us with him," he finishes, smiling proudly.

Javier Esposito is smiling, also – as he, too, remembers that day.

"Wanted our opinion," he states.

"My opinion," Ryan teases. "You don't exactly have any experience buying engagement rings," he adds, and he realizes the folly of his words immediately, as Lanie cocks her head, giving his partner 'the look'.

"Boy does have a point there," she says, looking at Esposito, who greets Ryan with another glare, this time a bit stronger.

"So . . . he got it a month or so ago," continues Lanie, allowing Javier Esposito to stew for a few more seconds before letting him off the hook.

"Well then, why isn't it on my girl's finger already?" she asks the two men.

"Well . . . that's complicated," Esposito and Ryan both state simultaneously, getting an eye roll from Lanie.

"Oh, hell no. Not the two of you, too," she says. "The little mind-meld thing is cute with them. It's just plain creepy from you two."

"Look, Castle wasn't too pleased with Beckett after the Eric Vaughn case," Ryan explains.

"Not too pleased at all," Esposito adds.

"Beckett playing footsie with a billionaire didn't sit too well with him – especially after thinking they'd crossed a threshold of sorts that day she got stuck on that bomb," Ryan states.

"So, he's got a ring in his pocket, and suddenly Beckett is playing games with Vaughn," Esposito agrees.

"Hey now, Vaughn meant nothing to Beckett," Lanie argues.

"Meant something to her lips," Esposito tosses in, casually.

"At least according to Castle," Ryan adds.

"Boy gets shot at, and the only reason he's alive is he was lip-locked with Beckett," Esposito continues.

"That kiss meant nothing," Lanie continues to argue, but one look at the men who now are – more or less – looking down their noses at her causes her to drop this stance.

"Okay, okay," she says, giving in.

"Anyway, back to the present," Javier tells her.

"Well, she's with him now, I know," she tells them. "She called him asking him to meet her."

"Think he gave it to her?" Ryan asks.

"I'm betting yes," Lanie says, smiling proudly, thinking of how happy Beckett will be with a ring on her finger – finally.

"Fifty dollars says he didn't," Javier says, disagreeing as he shakes his head.

"Think I'm with Javi on this one," Ryan says quickly.

"Guys . . . really!"

Ryan stands up to refresh his coffee. It's a down time, case-wise, and they are glad for the reprieve. It has certainly been a busy year, made even more interesting by the finally-developed relationship between Castle and Beckett.

They sit and chat for a few more minutes, when suddenly, Kate Beckett walks into the precinct. Lanie Parish is the first to see her friend through the break room window, and she stands quickly and hurries to the approaching detective.

"Well, let's see it, girl!" she says excitedly. "How big is that ring?"

Kate has a confused look on her face, which tells Ryan and Esposito all they need to know. A quick glance at both of her hands confirms it, and a now shrinking medical examiner is begging the heavens for a quick exit somewhere.

No ring.

"My girl owes me fifty bucks," states Esposito.

_**Castle's Loft Residence, later that night, May 16, 2013**_

Richard Castle sits in his study, the glass of bourbon atop his desk as he sits in his writing chair, staring at the laptop screen that he has yet to turn on. He taps the glass with his fingers, as he has for the past half hour. It's his first glass, and he has yet to finish it. He notes with satisfaction – and surprise - that he hasn't sloshed himself into a silent drunken stupor.

A knock at the door to his study jars him away from his current thought process – which is no process at all, really. In truth, his mind has truly – surprisingly – been a blank slate since he walked through the loft door, poured his drink, and made his way to the study.

"Come on in," he says to the closed door. The door swings open, and the bouncy, smiling face of his daughter greets him, bringing an uncontrolled smile to his face.

He's always loved and appreciated Alexis, but chasing her through the streets and caverns of Paris has deepened his love for – and devotion to - the now almost grown-up redhead. He reminds himself that she will be leaving soon for Costa Rica. He's given her the check – finally.

A couple of steps behind her, the red hair of his mother pops around the door – almost as if she is still asking permission for entry.

Both women were in the loft when Castle came home. He didn't seem to see the pair sitting in the living room, watching television, as he made his way straight to the kitchen cabinet, grabbing a glass, grabbing the bottle of bourbon, and retreating with both to the solitude of his study.

Neither had to wonder how the proposal went. They knew he had taken the ring with him, Martha thinking that she had gotten through to him. For the half hour that he sits alone in his study, his mother and daughter go back and forth, contemplating possibilities, before finally agreeing to just go and confront Castle and get their answers directly.

"Dad?" Alexis begins – not really sure where to start.

"Hi pumpkin," he greets her, smiling.

"Richard?"

"Hello, mother" he continues, keeping the smile painted on his face.

"Dad, what happened?" Alexis asks. "Are you all right?" she asks, staring at the barely touched glass of bourbon at his fingertips – not knowing whether this is his first or fifth glass.

He follows her line of vision to the glass his fingers tap on, and smiles at her.

"Still my first glass, pumpkin. No need to worry about your old man."

"You are _not_ 'my old man', " she tells him with a frown. "What's going on, Dad?"

"How did your talk go, Richard?" Martha Rogers asks him.

"Well, mother, that depends on whose perspective we look at," he tells her, still smiling, but the smile fading with each passing second.

She takes a close look at her son's eyes. They are clear and bright. Good. So he's not drunk, and he hasn't been crying. Then she notices.

It's bright in the room. The lights are on. Even better. He's not sitting in the dark, sulking. Maybe everything is okay after all.

"Let's try your perspective," she tells him.

"My perspective," he begins. "Well, I wasted money on this ring," he says, taking the still-hidden box from his coat pocket, and tossing it on his desk.

"I finally see Beckett for who she really is," he adds, running a hand through his hair. "And I finally see Beckett and I for what we really are," he finishes.

Alexis watches the ring box fly out of her dad's hand onto the desk, and a slow simmering burn is ignited in the young red-head. As much as she likes and admires Kate Beckett, his daughter has still – for the past year – been wary of the detective. It took four years . . . four long years for her dad to finally breach the detective's well-laid barriers, and even then, while she has been happy for him, deep down she has remained unconvinced.

"What happened, Dad?" she asks, for now able to contain her anger.

"She apologized," be begins. "But it didn't matter."

"Why not?" his mother asks.

He searches for the right words, the most honest and accurate words, before finally settling back on his original first answer.

"Because she is . . . who she is."

"That' doesn't tell us much," Martha states, with a bit of disappointment.

"Actually, yes it does," his daughter challenges, knowingly.

He smiles at his daughter. So much older than her years. He's not sure if this is good news or bad news. Paris changed her, for certain. In good ways and bad.

Being kidnapped clearly falls under the 'bad'. She's admitted she never expected to get back home alive. She never expected to see her family again.

Under the 'good' – well, her family got larger by one person. A person she didn't get to meet in person, but now knows intimately through her dad.

A grandfather she never knew really does exist.

"Well, who is she then, Richard?" Martha asks, confused only because her grand-daughter seems in the know regarding something in which she herself is - clearly - out of the loop.

He considers her question. It's a question he answered for himself late last night, and confirmed as Kate's arrived at the swing set earlier today. It's a question that – had he asked himself and answered earlier – could have saved himself a wasted year.

Okay, that's a bit melodramatic. In so many ways, it's been a great year for them. They connected, have become intimate, have grown closer. Everything was going so well. At least he thought it was. Then they had that damn case with the billionaire, and somehow . . . somehow he got through to Kate. In a couple of days, he breached walls that it took Castle years to break through. He could see it. It was brief, it was very, very brief.

But it was there.

He knows what he saw.

Then she goes off interviewing in Washington, D.C. When did she first interview there? How long has this been going on? He doesn't know, and the not-knowing bugs him even more. He begins to wonder exactly when the cracks appeared. He begins to wonder why he didn't see them. Why didn't he notice earlier?

"She is a woman who knows exactly what she wants," he finally tells her.

"What's wrong with that?" Martha asks in her typical sing-song voice. "A man who knows what he wants is praised, respected, celebrated –"

"I said she knows _what _she wants, not _who_ she wants."

"Okay," Martha says, taking the bait. "Who does she want?"

"Who," he tells her "doesn't matter. Doesn't even play into her equation."

"I don't understand, Richard," Martha tells him.

"He means that in the end, Kate does whatever Kate wants to do," Alexis Castle states softly. She exchanges glances with her father, who nods imperceptibly.

"It's her life," she says, with finality.

"And I should have seen this coming," Castle adds, finally reaching for the glass of bourbon and taking a long drink. It burns, sweetly, as it flows down his throat, and he hisses silently, enjoying the burn.

"Richard –"

"You know what she said to me, about this same time last year, Mother?"

"No, what did she say, darling?"

"We were arguing about her mother's case, about how it was getting people killed. About how it was going to get her killed."

"Yes?"

"She told me – and I quote – _'it's my life, Castle. Mine.'_"

Alexis nods her head, remembering how her dad recounted that conversation to her later, as does Martha.

"So the other day, we are talking about this job opportunity, and what it might mean for us – for she and I. Do you know what she said – just two days ago?"

Neither Martha or Alexis say a word. They don't nod their heads, they don't shake their heads. They know it isn't a question they are supposed to answer. He is talking out loud. He's going to tell them what she said. He's getting to it.

"She tells me – and, again, I quote – _'this is my life. Don't make this about us.'_"

Martha has heard this before, but somehow, someway, today it is different. Somehow, those words that she found so easy to justify, to defend just a day ago, now seem harsh, selfish, self-centered.

Alexis doesn't speak. She simply stares at her father. Her eyes are focused – boring deep into his.

"One whole year. After a year of life together – after a full year of laughing together, crying together, working together, loving together . . ." he states, then pauses, looking at his daughter. Hell, she's old enough, and she's not stupid.

"After one year of sleeping together – one entire year later, she tells me the exact same words she told me this time last year. It's her life . . . not mine . . . not ours . . . hers."

Alexis clenches her fists. She wants to go and hug her dad. She wants to tell him it's going to be all right. But she knows – she has always known – or at least suspected – that it wasn't ever going to be all right.

Martha slowly walks over to the small love seat that sits across from the desk where her son rests. She grabs his glass, takes a quick swallow, and replaces it on his desk, and sits on the love seat.

"Nothing changed – after a year together – nothing changed," he says wistfully.

"Richard –"

"Nothing changed, Grams," Alexis agrees, still firmly planted at in the doorway, not moving. She looks back to Castle, who eyes her –once again - with newfound respect for her maturity.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she tells him.

"Yeah, pumpkin. Me, too," he replies, smiling weakly.

"So, she's going to take the job in D.C.?" asks Martha.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon."

"What about the two of you?" she asks.

He doesn't respond. Instead, he merely looks at his mother for a second or two. He takes another quick swallow, and leans forward on his desk to the laptop, touching the side button, turning the device on. A slow hum fills the air as the laptop powers up.

"What are you going to do now, Dad?" his daughter asks.

"What I always do," he replies. "I'm going to write."

Martha nods, and she tries not to smile. Her son is resilient if nothing else. He will write. It's what he does. And he does it well.

"Where will get your inspiration now," she asks, genuinely curious. For the past few years now, all of his inspiration has come from the detective. And now that avenue is gone.

"He will find it somewhere," Alexis says for him, her head a little higher, her voice strong.

"Somewhere . . . somehow," he agrees.

His phone chirps, startling all of them. He reaches into his pocket, extracting the now buzzing device. It's a text message. From Javier Esposito.

_Javier: Yo, bro. You OK?_

He smiles at the message. Life goes on. And he has his family. And evidently, he still has friends at the 12th. It shouldn't surprise him.

_Castle: Never better._


	3. Chapter 3

**The Wonder: Chapter 3**

**A/N: **I love the full, complete fan-fiction experience, where the reviews and PM's are every bit as entertaining (and sometimes as insightful) as the story itself.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**A café around the corner from the 12**__**th**__** Precinct, Afternoon of May 16, 2013**_

"Damn, girl, I don't understand how you two can mess things up so . . . so –"

Lanie Parish lets her own words die away, and leans back into her booth seat, folding her arms in front of her chest, shaking her head slowly. Five minutes earlier, she had quickly grabbed her friend's hand and forced a quick about face, getting the detective away from the prying eyes of the precinct; two prying eyes in particular.

Each of them now caress a cup of coffee, breathing deeply to take in the steamy aroma, while warming their hands. It's a chilly May afternoon, and the warmth of the coffee eases the tensions that were spiking during the elevator ride downstairs and the quick walk to the café.

Kate Beckett is quiet. Her hands wrapped around her cup, she continually moves her left fingers upward off the cup, staring at her fingers – staring at one finger in particular. That finger has always been empty. There has never been anything garnishing that specific finger. So why does it feel so empty, so undressed this afternoon?

"I honestly thought you and Castle were doing pretty good," Lanie says, finally finding the words to continue.

"We've been doing fine," Kate agrees, shaken out of her reverie by her friend's words, and picking up her cup and taking a sip.

"Fine?" Lanie asks with surprise. She can't keep the emotion off her face. She knew that Castle was thinking of proposing. At least that's what she thought. Perhaps she was wrong. No - she couldn't have been wrong. Javi and Kevin confirmed that he had bought her a ring. He had bought the ring over a month ago.

You don't buy a ring when things are just 'fine'.

She had shared bits and pieces of the conversation with the boys during the elevator ride down to the street level, talking quickly, and expressing huge disappointment that her friend wasn't sporting a shiny new diamond.

"Yeah, we've been doing okay," Kate tells her, choosing a different word this time.

"Okay?" Lanie asks again, with even more surprise.

"What do you want me to say, Lanie?" Beckett asks her, putting her cup back down on the table, mildly frustrated.

"Nothing, girl," Lanie says with a bit of disgust. "Nothing at all."

"All right, spill it," Kate says, now with a bit of impatience showing. Her friend expected her to walk into the precinct newly-engaged, and it seems that even Esposito and Ryan might have shared that expectation. Clearly, everyone there is aware of something that she –

"Castle bought you an engagement ring, about a month or so ago."

_A month ago?_

Kate opens her mouth to speak, her mind now racing back in time. She and Richard Castle have been dancing for a year. And that, after a four-year . . . she can't even call it a courtship. Point is, nothing in the past year, much less the past month, has given her any indication that the novelist is any closer to taking their relationship to the next level.

In fact, the last month has been one where their dance has begun to change. The timing of the opportunity coming from D.C. couldn't have come at a more . . . interesting point in their relationship. The tension between them since the case with Eric Vaughn has been palpable. They've played it off with their typical innuendo and banter during the day, and intense bedroom play in the evenings . . . but it's been different. She knows it. He knows it.

What she _didn't_ know was that he was stepping it up. The fact that he has seemed so . . . comfortable with the status quo, almost afraid to push things beyond their current condition was starting to become a point of contention – a nagging itch for the detective. And yet, now she discovers that he had bought a ring. He, too, was dissatisfied with their current standing, and had gone and done something about it.

Or he had, at a minimum, taken that all-important first step. And she had completely missed it. She'd let Meredith get inside her head – damn the woman, and she'd let a billionaire playboy – kind of a Castle of five years ago, just with more money – she'd let _that_ guy get into her space, albeit briefly. Damn herself for that one.

"When? Why would he –"

"You were standing on a bomb, Kate," her friend tells her, knowing the question in her mind before she can finish voicing it.

"He thought he had lost you. He thought you were going to die, and when you walked out of that apartment alive, well, Javi says he felt rejuvenated. He saw it as a second chance," Lanie continues. "And when Captain Gates gave her blessing – that one was a stunner, girl – well, the boys said that Castle was a different guy after that."

_A different guy._

And she had missed it. How in the hell had she missed it?

He hadn't seemed all that different to her. He still seemed satisfied with their relationship, as-is. Watch a few movies, play a few video games with his on-line friends, go solve a few cases, jump in the sack . . .

But behind the scenes, he had taken steps to elevate things.

"When you told me that Castle had stormed out of your apartment, I reached out to him," Lanie continues, drawing an eye-brow raise from her friend.

"Don't, Kate. Don't even start," Lanie warns her. "You two have needed more outside help than any couple I know of."

"Maybe that's the problem," Kate says softly, defensively. "Maybe we aren't as good at this as we think, as we appear to be. If we always need a push, always need someone to pull and tug –"

"Everyone needs a little help, Kate," Lanie tells her. "A fact that you seem to take as weakness, when you _should_ take it with gratitude," the medical examiner adds, with a bit of spunk.

Kate takes another sip, considering the words from her best friend. Lanie never has been one to pull punches. For years, even before Kate was ready to commit, Lanie was there, constantly doing exactly that . . . pulling, tugging, pushing . . .

"You really think he was going to propose?"

"All I know," Lanie tells her, "is that he told me it was time to grow up . . . and according to Javi, he said it was time to 'man up'."

"Then why didn't he give me the ring?" she asks with exasperation. "I don't mean today. I mean, if he's had it for a month, if he's wanted to change things, then why didn't –"

"Well," Lanie interrupts. "I think it may have had something to do with a certain kiss you shared with a certain billionaire playboy."

With that, the beautiful detective leans back in her seat, her head falling back into the headrest, and she stares up at the ceiling above her.

"Shit."

This is starting to make a little more sense now. In truth, she can understand Richard Castle being upset that she had interviewed without telling him. Even she knows her feeble excuses sounded like . . . well, feeble excuses, when she gave them. Clearly there are a few things she wishes she could take back that she said. If they had a 'do-over', she'd certainly approach that conversation differently . . . beginning with making sure he didn't find out about her interview by finding her boarding pass. She should have told him about it much, much earlier.

"Shit."

"Yeah," Lanie laments. "My thoughts exactly."

"Dammit, Lanie . . ."

Lanie Parish doesn't comment further. Kate Beckett, if nothing else, makes her own bed. It's her history. She operates under her own drumbeat. And like anyone else, sometimes that drumbeat has a bit of a stutter step, a mis-step.

"It didn't mean anything," Kate finally tells her, her fingers squeezing the bridge of her nose, a bit of anguish seeping into her voice. This should be a happy time for her. She should be celebrating an opportunity to advance her career . . .

"What didn't?" Lanie asks her.

"That kiss."

"Oh, hell no, girl, you do _not_ get to play that card," Lanie states, anger and frustration with her best friend finally showing.

"Lanie –"

"A kiss on the lips _always_ means something, girl! Don't you _even_ try and throw that crap my way."

"Lanie, _he_ kissed me!"

"You _let_ him, as I understand it."

Kate says nothing. This isn't an argument she's going to win, because she knows the medical examiner is right. That kiss did mean something. What it actually meant for Kate, she isn't sure yet. But she does know that if she was totally, completely, 100 percent against that kiss . . . well, she could have stopped it at any time.

Damn Meredith. Damn Vaughn.

"Reverse things," Lanie tells her. "What if it had been Castle and some other-"

"I know, I know –"

"No, you _don't_ know," Lanie tells her. "If you did know then you wouldn't . . ."

Lanie stops, placing her hand over her mouth in surprise. She begins to wonder exactly how well she knows her 'best' friend.

"You know," Lanie finally begins again, "both Javi and Kevin had bets _against_ him giving you the ring."

The look of surprise on Kate's face is enough for Lanie.

"Both of them see Castle's point of view, Kate, and these are two men who always – and I do mean _always_ – have had your back."

Kate hangs her head, momentarily, pulling her emotions in check. Without knowing it, Lanie has triggered her friend's now legendary defensive tactics.

Kate operates very well, she's at her professional best in a 'me against the world' environment. It's what got her through those lean early years when not only could no one solve her mother's case, but it seemed no one _wanted_ to solve her case. It's what got her through those years when everyone told her to 'get over it' and 'move on'. If no one, not even Esposito and Ryan – men she considers her brothers – can understand, well, what else is new? No one has ever understood. In the end, it's always been up to her.

"Castle and I have always been . . . complicated," Kate finally says, settling on that non-revelation as her explanation for the current status between she and the man that – despite her decisions and behavior – she does truly love.

"Girl, I'm not sure that there still _is_ a 'you and Castle' at this point," Lanie tells her, shaking her head. Either her friend is really, really dense . . . or she has miscalculated how much Castle does – or does not mean to her.

Kate thinks about her last conversation with Castle on the swing sets, just a little over an hour ago. She thinks about how they left things. A soft kiss. He wished her well. He understands her taking this opportunity. He's actually encouraged her to do so. And he told her – in his own way – that someday she will find her 'one and done', and even said that maybe he could still be that man. He's pissed off right now, she gets that. But he will come around. He always does.

For now, this opportunity is – as was told to her – one of those 'once or twice in a lifetime chances' – and Kate recognizes that if she is going to do something different, if she is going to make a break from the NYPD – now is the time. She's the youngest female police detective on the force. She's made a name for herself. She's being recognized outside those walls.

Once in a lifetime.

Castle?

As she has told Lanie, it's complicated.

With them, it's always complicated. And somehow, they seem to do well with complicated.

Don't they?

She opens her mouth to dispute Lanie's concerns when Lanie drops the final bomb.

"Kate – I'm your friend. I love you, girl, you know this," Lanie tells her, as she reaches across the booth table and takes her friends hand in hers. Both women immediately glance down at the empty finger – both thinking the same thing.

"I know you are thinking 'hey, this is Castle, he loves me, we will work it out somehow'. " The look the detective gives her is confirmation enough that she's on the right track, and so she continues.

"But how many times can you push the same man away, before he finally breaks? When . . . when . . ."

She pauses, staring out the window at the New Yorkers hurrying by, scurrying about with places to go. She knows not to push her friend too much. She knows how Kate responds, and she wonders if she's already pushed too hard. But the detective pulls her back.

"When what, Lanie," she asks her, still holding on to her hand. "When . . .?" she draws out the last word, questioning where her friend is going.

"When did Castle become nothing more than a Tom, or a Josh?" she asks her, and she feels Kate pulling back, she feels Kate release her hand, ready to pull away. Lanie won't let her – not this time, and holds tightly to her friend's hand.

"When it is not going to just be about you, girl?"

_**Washington, D.C., the evening of May 16, 2013**_

Deputy Director Anthony Freedman sits in his glass office, overlooking the beautiful D.C. landscape that spreads out before him.

Washington, D.C. is such a beautiful city in the evening, once the sun has gone down and the lights come on. From his vantage point, perched high above the city, he can feel the power, the privilege that distorts the great city below.

The ringing phone interrupts his quiet contemplation. It's probably one of his field directors, calling in to provide an update on one of the many cases under his care. It's time to go home, see the family, get a bite to eat with Jennifer. She's so good with the kids. The late nights leave her often operating as what seems like a single parent. But she never complains. He knows how lucky he is. He considers stopping off for flowers when he leaves, as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his cell phone, and frowns when he sees the caller ID.

"What can I do for you this evening?" the Deputy Director says in greeting.

"Just checking in to see how our applicant is doing," the caller responds.

"Pretty much as you expected. You seem to have her pegged pretty accurately," Freedman says. "She has accepted the position, and will be starting in a week. She asked for a little time to get her affairs in New York in order."

"Good, good. I appreciate the favor, Tony, and you know I don't forget favors."

"Well, Senator, I'm assuming she's as good as you suggest. She didn't seem all that special to me. Not so sure why you want her here in D.C.," the Deputy Director says, as he begins cleaning off his desk. He wants to get home.

"You've done me a favor, Tony. She did me a favor once. Saved my life earlier this year," Senator William Bracken tells him. "Car bomb."

"I heard about that," Freedman says, now actually a bit more interested. "That was Beckett?"

"That was Beckett," the Senator says, and Freedman can almost hear the smile from the other end. "I owed her one – and now I have re-paid my debt. And Tony?"

"Yes, Senator."

"Now I owe you one," Bracken says as he clicks off, disconnecting the call.

In reality, getting Beckett isn't part of repaying a favor for the Senator. Instead, he looks at it more from the perspective of getting Beckett out of New York City. He has an upcoming presidential campaign to fund, and time is getting short. Detective Katherine Beckett has proven – too many times – to be a thorn in his side. Whether by good detective work or just pure luck, the woman habitually is in the wrong place at the wrong time, when it comes to his affairs. And his affairs often are not what most people would term 'legal or ethical' – not by a long shot.

His latest fund raising activities include a couple of nefarious characters that have actually had run-ins in the past with the detective. No, the best course of action is to get her away from his activities. He doesn't want to kill her. At least not yet. A debt _is_ a debt, after all. But if she gets sideways again, if she becomes a nuisance?

Well, at least this way he can keep a closer eye on her – personally. And getting her away from New York also means getting her away from her crew. She works well with the detectives at the precinct. And the author. But he is already taking steps to ensure the novelist isn't in the picture. Eric was a big help in that regard. Lover boy actually stole a kiss from the detective. He didn't see that one coming.

Another favor owed. And it only costs a couple of lives – just pieces on his chess board. Pawns really. No major pieces lost. Well worth the effort.

He smiles as he places his cell phone back in his suit pocket, and leaves the hotel hallway, stepping back into the ballroom, and the happy sounds coming from the fund raiser being held in his honor.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Wonder: Chapter 4**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The 12**__**th**__** Precinct, Early afternoon on May 18, 2013**_

"Good luck, Kate," Detective Tom Demming says, placing a quick kiss on the cheek of Kate Beckett. "I know you are going to knock 'em dead down there."

"Thanks, Tom. That means a lot," Kate tells him with a soft smile.

The precinct is filled with friends and well-wishers from her past and present. They have all come to the good-bye send-off to offer their well wishes. There is a sense of . . . transition in the building. Many there recognize this as the end of an era – an era they will talk about almost reverently, with respect, years from now.

It's not often that one works with a legend, and against almost imaginable odds – storybook stuff, really – Detective Kate Beckett has become exactly that. The youngest female ever promoted to detective – beating her Captain, Victoria Gates, by roughly a month and a half – her cases are indeed, the stuff of legend.

The Triple Killer. The serial killer Scott Dunn (and escaping a blown to bits apartment, to boot). Saving a United States Senator from a car bomb. Solving the murder of a beloved late night talk show host. Averting a nuclear disaster by defeating a domestic terrorist. The list goes on and on. All cases worked by Detective Kate Beckett.

And one Richard Castle.

All of her friends, co-workers and family are here for this celebration, which is in full swing. All except one Richard Castle.

Tom Demming moves on, mingling with other co-workers. Javier Esposito steps aside, letting his fellow detective pass, and he smiles at his soon-to-be ex-boss. She's hiding it well. But he can see beyond the smile has glued to her face. The fact that everyone is here means the world to her, he knows this. The fact that one person is not here means every bit as much to her – this he knows also.

"Still no sign of Castle?" Kevin Ryan asks him, whispering just above the noise in the den.

"Nope," is the single word reply from his partner and best friend. He glances at his watch, and shakes his head in disappointment. Things must have really split in half for Castle to miss this.

He watches as Detective Roselyn Karpowski makes her way toward Kate, wrapping her arm around the woman of honor for the moment. Kate's smile stays in place, as she is pulled into a retrospective conversation with her fellow detective, but the lack of spark in her eyes gives her away to both Ryan and Esposito.

"Tried calling him?" Ryan asks.

"Twice. No answer," Esposito responds. "He knew about this. If he wanted to be here, he'd be here," Javier notes with sadness. Both men know what this means to Beckett. But both men also know what this means for Richard Castle as well. Neither saw this coming. So much can change in just a couple of days.

Meanwhile, Kate is having her moment with her fellow female detective on the force.

"Hard to believe I'm leaving this place," Kate tells Karpowski, her smile still in place.

"Oh, the bar on unbelievable is pretty high right now," Roselyn chuckles, and both women break into laughter at Karpowski's reminder of Kate's words to her from a few years ago. This time, Kate's laughter is genuine, as her friend continues chuckling.

"That was some case, wasn't it – a double murder, plotted by strangers on a water ferry," Detective Karpowski reminisces. "Who'd have thunk it?" she laughs, and Kate joins in. It's another of those strange cases that built the legend of Kate Beckett.

"You and Castle sure worked some wild ones," she adds, not knowing the pain her simple comment causes. "Where is writer-boy anyway?"

Kate hesitates, not really sure how much to share at this point. She opts for ignorance.

"I'm guessing he got caught up in traffic. I think he was coming in from the Hamptons today," she lies, and immediately she wants to put distance between herself and her friend. In fact, she'd like to put distance between herself and this party right now. It just doesn't seem right without her partner. She isn't re-thinking her decision.

She _is_ re-thinking how it came about.

Quickly, she puts those thoughts out of her mind, as best she can. She can't think about this right now – she doesn't want any tears at this shindig, and tears are not far behind if she focuses too much on 'writer boy', as many of the officers have taken to calling Castle. If she's honest with herself, she'd admit that she isn't just surprised – she is absolutely stunned that Castle is not here. It's just not like him to hold grudges, to be unforgiving. Always generous, always giving, always forgiving - she expected that he – like she is doing right now – would show up with a smile on his face, playing a role for the half hour or forty-five minutes necessary before making a strategic retreat.

The fact that he has chosen not to appear only serves to remind Kate Beckett of how much she has miscalculated her latest decision regarding Castle. She's taken a man who was hours – literally – from proposing to her and sent him running so far and fast that it seems no one – not Javi, not Kevin – knows where he is.

She could call Martha, but something tells her that's not the smart move at this point. Alexis? Not a chance. Even though she and the young red-head have gotten along wonderfully this past year, the girl will always be fiercely protective of her father. That's not a conversation she's going to face.

Suddenly, she is being ushered – physically – to the center of the room, where Captain Gates is – is that really Captain Gates standing on a chair – holding a can of coke in her hands – ready to toast? Figures the captain would stay by-the-book. In her own way, Kate realizes, Captain Gates is a welcome comfort to all in the precint. In an unpredictable, sometimes frightening world, she is steady. She is predictable.

Well, most times she is predictable. As she is all-but-carried toward her boss on the chair, Kate reflects back to . . . was it only just a month ago?

"_I don't know too many men who would've done what you did," _she remembers her captain telling Castle. Castle had stayed with her, ready to die with her if necessary, while she stood trapped on a bomb.

"_Oh for heaven's sake, Detective. Just . . . kiss the man."_ It is all Kate can do to fight back a tear, as she remembers she and Castle coming out to the public, with her Captain's blessings . . .

"_Was it only just a month ago?" _she thinks to herself, her smile still in place for her celebrating friends.

Her thoughts end, as she is roughly raised alongside her captain on an adjacent chair. Now standing, awkwardly, amongst her friends and peers, looking out across the sea of faces – she fights to keep her composure, as the one single missing face seems to stand out like a missing piece of a puzzle. It doesn't matter how beautiful the puzzle picture is – all you can see is that one missing piece.

"To _Federal Agent_ Kate Beckett," she finally hears Gates shout above the cheers, as arms and glasses and cans rise high, saluting their friend.

_**Downtown Manhattan, Early afternoon on May 18, 2013**_

"Thanks Pete, you're the best, as always,"

"No problem Derrick. Always a pleasure. You take care," Pete DiCarlo calls after the departing man, who opens the door just in time to also allow a certain Richard Castle to walk into the establishment.

Pete's heart sinks, as he watches his good friend walk toward him. It was just over a month ago that Richard Castle came into his store, purchasing a fine piece of jewelry for a fine woman. Long-time friends, Pete was genuinely happy to sell Richard Castle his engagement ring – and not only because of the profit attached to it. Yeah, that's part of it. But the bigger part, for Pete, was the realization that his friend had found love again, and despite his earlier rants to the contrary all those years ago, he was entering the marital fray once again.

And this time, Pete was certain it would stick. Castle had spoken often about the detective. For the past four or five years, Pete has had to listen to Castle ramble on and on and on.

_Kate this. Beckett that. Kate said this. You wouldn't believe what Beckett did now._

But now, here is Richard Castle again, and since he is alone, since his girlfriend is not with him, he certainly isn't here for a re-sizing. He idly wonders what went wrong, as Castle approaches, and predictably reaches into his coat pocket and extracts the small box.

"Hey there, Pete," Castle says by way of greeting.

"What can I do for you, my friend . . . although I'm guessing this isn't as pleasant a visit as your last one," Pete tells him, reaching his hand out to retrieve the ring box from Castle's hand. When Castle doesn't say anything more, Pete is compelled to ask the question.

"What – in the _hell_ – happened now, Rick?"

A half smile is all Castle can manage. Pete can see the hurt in his friend, and he can see the anger as well. But he also sees something that both concerns and uplifts him. There is a . . . a strong but silent resignation . . . no, not resignation . . . acceptance, yeah that's the word.

"Are you sure?" he asks Rick. "I mean, couples argue. Most times, believe it or not, they get past it – you know this yourself, Rick."

Castle shakes his head, still trying his best to offer a smile to his friend, and failing miserably.

"Not this time, Pete," he tells him. "Not this time."

"Such a beautiful piece," Pete says shaking his head, examining the contents of the box.

"For someone, yes," Castle tells him. "But even if somehow it _could_ work out someday, I don't want to see this ring again. This ring will always be a reminder of what should have –"

He pauses, and corrects himself.

". . . of what _could_ have been. I don't want to give this ring to _anyone_."

Pete nods sadly, placing the ring back under the glass compartment. He walks to the cabinet behind the register, pulling a small folder out under Castle's name, and retrieves the month-old receipt, and credits Castle's account.

He holds out the paper for Castle to take. Instead, Castle grabs his hand with both of his own, giving a firm shake to his friend.

"It was truly a masterpiece, Pete. Thank you, my friend."

"You don't want to talk about it?" Pete asks him.

"I don't want to talk about it," Castle agrees, releasing his hand. He glances at his watch. Her send-off should be over pretty soon. He turns and walks toward the door, and as he opens the door, he says goodbye to the jeweler.

"Maybe next time, Pete," he says, walking through the door and closing it behind him.

"Yeah. Maybe next time, Rick," Pete says to the closed door, and turns to replace his paperwork in the cabinet.

_**The Old Haunt, a week later, on the night of May 25, 2013**_

Javier Esposito walks into the Old Haunt and is greeted by the familiar smells, the familiar noise. Immediately he thinks of happier times, with 'the gang'. He just as quickly punts those thoughts out of his mind. He's here to talk to – and listen to – a man he considers a friend.

When Castle answered his numerous incessant texts – finally – just over half an hour ago, Esposito felt both relief and anger. Relief that his friend is okay, and then anger over the pain he knows another good friend of his is probably feeling tonight.

Pain that was caused by Richard Castle.

He's not sure which emotion is going to win, as he walks into the old, renovated bar – relief or anger. He hasn't heard from Castle in over a week. So he is relieved that the man is all right. He walks past the coat rack, and starts to head back to 'their' booth - the booth always reserved for the detectives of the 12th Precinct, and owner of this establishment. He takes a few steps down the aisle toward the booth, nodding toward Cindy, the barkeep . . .

"Hey, Javi!" he hears Castle's excited voice call to him. From behind the bar.

A stunned Esposito walks up to the bar, and pulls up a stool, sitting on it.

"Where's Cindy?" he asks, looking up and down the bar area. "And what are _you_ doing behind there?"

"Uh . . . it's my bar, Javi," Castle tells him, showing confusion in his eyes. "I can work the bar any time I want . . . y'know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, bro, I guess you can," Esposito says, chuckling to himself. He's glad to see Castle. He knows the pain that Castle's absence caused his boss last week.

Correction: His ex-boss.

But he knows that Castle is hurting also. And he has been worried that Castle has not – until tonight – returned anyone's calls, or texts, or emails.

"Where've you been, man?" he asks his friend behind the bar.

"Here," is the single word answer he receives.

"At the bar?"

Castle nods his head, smiling.

"The whole time?"

"Most of it, yeah. Alexis is in Costa Rica. Mother is . . . well, mother is wherever she is," and both men share a knowing chuckle.

"You're sleeping here?"

"Well, I've got a nice area downstairs, and . . . "

Castle pauses for a moment, and for a brief instant, Esposito sees Castle's eyes get cloudy and glaze over. Just as quickly, however, the sparkle returns, along with the smile.

". . . and there's no one to go home to. So . . ." he says, holding out the last syllable.

Esposito simply nodes his head in understanding. Relief wins out, as Javi decides that the good health of his friend takes precedence over any lingering anger he's been feeling.

"Have you been writing?" he asks Castle, and Castle shakes his head. This time, he can actually see the frustration in Castle's eyes. He's a writer, not a bartender. And if he hasn't been writing, then he hasn't been doing what he loves; what he was born to do. He imagines that the absence of a certain ex-detective now turned federal agent has something to do with the apparent attack of writer's block afflicting his friend.

"Why not?" Esposito asks him, allowing a little indignation to seep into his words. "You have nothing to say? I find that surprising. It's not like _nothing_ has been goin' on these past couple of weeks," he tells him.

"Hey, Espo, I appreciate the pep talk," Castle says with a smile, and he really is genuinely appreciative of the concern being shown by the detective. Truth be told, Castle has been half-dreading seeing either Esposito or Ryan after missing Beckett's send off. He knows how protective they are of her, and justifiably so.

"I kind of lost my inspiration," he tells the detective, looking down at the small glass, as he cleans it with a towel that immediately gets slung back across his shoulder. It's a look on Castle that causes Esposito to break out in laughter.

"Hey – Hey! I don't mean to laugh, Castle," he says immediately, knowing that laughter after the novelist' admission isn't a good move.

"I'm just laughing at this visual you are giving me here," and Castle stares blankly into space for a second, before breaking down in laughter himself.

"Yeah, I probably look like a sight right now," he tells him. "What can I get you, Javi – on the house, of course. Gin and -"

"Tonic," Esposito finishes for him, and both men smile.

"Coming right up," Castle tells him, expertly moving around the small enclosed area as though he has worked behind the bar for years. For the next half hour, the two men talk. They reconnect. Esposito brings him up to speed on Ryan and Jenny. He tells them they haven't replaced Beckett yet. Castle shares a couple of new jokes he has heard during the past week of bartending.

Finally, Esposito comes back to the elephant in the room.

"You have to start writing again, bro," he tells him. "You know this, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do, Javi. I just need to figure things out, get my head straight. Get inspired, y'know?"

"How did you do this before . . ." Esposito pauses, knowing that any and every mention of Kate Beckett's name causes a shift in his friend. It's almost imperceptible, but Espo sees it.

"How did you do this before you came to the precinct?" he asks. Castle smiles – a genuine smile, as he recognizes the effort Esposito has made not to mention a certain name again.

"How did you get your inspiration then?"

"We call it research," Castle says, chuckling. "All that time, shadowing . . . all that time shadowing you and Ryan and Beckett . . . it was a golden opportunity for research," he tells him, and Esposito sees the half-truth in his words.

He takes another sip of his drink – his third in the past thirty or so minutes. The drinks have been coming fast and furious, and for a moment, Esposito wonders if Castle has an extra bed in this place. Whether it is the alcohol or just true brilliant inspiration will be debated by both men in the coming weeks. But the words erupt from the detective's mouth before he can give them a second thought.

"You know, Castle, you were pretty good at this police stuff," he begins. "Not the paperwork, of course. You sucked at that, man," he continues, and both men laugh.

"Thanks, Javi, that's very kind of you to say."

"Kind, shmind, man. You know it's true," the detective tells him. "Half the cases we solved were because of those lunatic ideas of yours – and you know how our close rate increased when you came on."

Castle nods. He's heard this before. The police department finds close rates very important, for good reason. And while Kate – being in charge of the team – got most of the notoriety for their close rate, it was common knowledge that Castle's input into the process was, if nothing else, highly influential.

"Why stop?" Esposito asks him?

"What?"

"Why stop?"

Castle shakes his head for a second. _"It's time to cut Esposito off, and call him a cab,"_ he thinks to himself.

"Javi, Captain Gates would never –"

"Whose talking about Captain Gates," Esposito counters, taking another sip which downs his drink. He raises his glass to Castle, who shakes his head.

"Uh, uh, buddy, I think that's more than enough," Castle tells him with a smile.

"Castle, you're good at solving things – you're good at solving problems," he tells him, still talking excitedly. "There's a lot of private investigators out there that don't have anywhere near your experience or instincts," he tells him, suddenly sounding like a very sober man, indeed.

Castle stares at him for a moment, and then reaches down for another glass and begins making another drink for the detective. He's got an extra bed downstairs – this might turn out to be a late night.

"You want me to be a private investigator?" he asks incredulously, as he pulls a stool over to the detective, and hollers across the bar at Cindy, who has been playing waitress tonight.

"Hey Cindy, can you come bartend for a bit?" he asks her, and she nods her head quickly, in gratitude. He knows she would much rather bar-tend than wait tables. Lots more money behind the bar, and she knows how to deal with the drunks.

He turns to Esposito, and repeats the question.

"You want to me be a private investigator," and this time, it's less a question and more of a statement.

"Plenty of inspiration, bro. Plenty of research," is all Esposito has to say.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Wonder: Chapter 5**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Richard Castle's Loft, Late June 2013**_

Richard Castle claps and lets out a whoop. He is seated at his desk in his study in his loft, staring at the large screen of his 27-inch iMac. He happily hits the PRINT icon, and let's out another shout of delight.

He's just passed the private investigator examination for the State of New York. After a month of taking on-line courses, google searches, and a few trips to the library, he's passed the written exam. The notification in his Inbox is a welcome relief. He stands, lifting his hands over his head, fist-bumping the air in celebration over his achievement.

Ever since his conversation with Detective Esposito back at the Old Haunt – just over a month ago - Castle has found himself focused, and on a mission. And oh boy, this has – indeed - been timely. It's taken his mind off a certain female detective (okay, not really, but he tells himself this often), and given himself a new, clear purpose. He can help people who need help, he can pick the cases he wishes, so as to minimize the personal danger to himself – and to the two women important to him in his family. And he can use these new experiences as fuel and fodder for future stories he will write. It's the proto-typical win-win.

He's surprised he hadn't thought of the idea himself, and once again sends a mental 'thank you' to Javier Esposito.

He has also been looking for space, for a brick and mortar storefront for his business – assuming, of course, he passes the exam – which he has just done, thank you very much. He has considered maybe operating 100% on the web, with all initial contacts done via his web page, and in-person meetings conducted in coffee shops and restaurants. That is the safer route, yeah.

But that isn't how he wants to write his new stories. He _wants_ the personal interaction, that's where the stories are! He wants the full nostalgic private dick experience that he grew up reading about, and watching on television.

He closes his eyes, and his mind conjures up a 1940's scene – it's even in black and white, and the sweet, soft hum of the saxophone provides the proper mood, the proper background music. The hallway leading to his small office is dark as you walk toward the door, which has a frosted glass window. The words 'Richard Rogers' on top and 'Private Investigator' underneath are stenciled into the glass. He smiles, seeing his name on the door.

The door opens, and inside the smoke-filled room, a ruggedly handsome man is impeccably dressed, with a dark gray three-piece suit and a matching gray Stetson Fedora hat with a black ribbon. He stands next to the corner of his desk. He is talking to a drop-dead gorgeous red-headed dame – that's right - her skin pale and smooth, who sits on the corner of said desk. And her legs! Her legs are crossed, and they barely creep out from the wickedly high cut on her dress, showing her soft knee caps and long stems that just go on . . . and on . . . and on . . . Her voice is sultry and familiar, and she calls him by name . . . He licks his lips, his mind touching on thoughts totally out of bounds . . .

"Richard" the voice coos.

"Richard" the inviting voice beckons again, as Cookie throws her head back in laughter.

Yeah . . . Cookie. Her voice is a splash of cool mist, straight from the moon outside his 3rd floor window. He finds himself staring at those lips . . . red lipstick inviting . . .

"Richard" she pouts now, those lips moving in ways that not a man on earth could ever -

"Richard!"

He snaps back to the present, and finds himself face to face with Martha Rogers, who has been calling his name for the past few seconds. He shakes his head with a shallow scream. He desperately wills (begs, actually) the sexy images of younger pictures he has seen of Ms. Rogers, the actress, to leave his mind - to disappear - while he stares at the red hair and red lips of his mother who stands in front of him.

"For the love of God, Mother, what the hell-"

"Richard, do not use that tone of voice with me," his mother warns. "I just came in to see what all of that noise was all about."

As she finishes, Alexis Castle walks through the doorway of his study.

"Dad, is everything all right?"

"_Okay"_ he thinks to himself, _"this could have been much, much worse,"_ as he imagines seeing his red-headed daughter in his throwback day-dream. Those are images that a mental control-alt-delete won't erase. An involuntary shudder grips the writer, as he quickly puts two fingers from each hand on his temples, and mutters "na-na-na-na-na" repeatedly until the image fades - thankfully.

"Oooo-kay," his daughter says, shaking her head.

"Do I even want to know, Richard?" his mother asks.

"Dear God, no you do not," he says under his breath. "What can I do for you two?"

"The noise? The big, happy whoop you let out?" his mother reminds him.

"Oh yes – that!" he replies, happy to get back on track. "Alexis, if you will retrieve that piece of paper from the printer over there," he states proudly, watching as the young woman walks to the printer and pulls the printed document out of the tray.

"Dad! Your P.I. license!" his daughter screams happily, handing the paper to a smiling Martha Rogers, who joins her in the celebration.

"Temporary license," he corrects. "The real one will come in the mail in the next few days. That's the one that will go in the frame" he says smiling broadly.

"Oh Richard, I am so proud of you!" Martha beams, walking to her son and pulling him down into a hug, which Alexis quickly joins.

"So this means you are official now?" his daughter asks.

"Yep – your dad is legal, pumpkin," he smiles affably. "Say goodbye to Richard Castle, tag-along writer," he says as he takes four quick steps over to the book shelf in the room and retrieves a vintage Montecristi 'Panama' fedora from the top shelf. He quickly places the old 1940's style hat atop his head.

"And say hello to Richard Rogers – Private Investigator extraordinaire!"

Martha and Alexis erupt in laughter. Martha claps in glee, shaking her head and giving a silent whisper of thanks that her son has found a new passion.

"Well, you certainly look the part," she laughs.

In truth, Martha Rogers has been worried about her son. He has just 'lost' the woman of his dreams. She's run off to a new job in the nation's capital, and his behavior since her departure can only be described as . . . acceptance.

That's not the Richard Castle she knows. He's been taking this too well. Too well for the man she knows. She remembers the man left wallowing when the dust of two failed marriages cleared. Those weren't easy days, especially with a baby – and then a youngster – to take care of. She's been convinced that this was denial on his part – pure and simple. Now she's not so sure. Maybe he really has found a 'phase three' for his life. The playboy writing Derrick Storm was one phase. The man in love penning Nikki Heat was another phase.

Then it hits her, the words he has just spoken. It has taken a few seconds for her brain to process what her ears heard.

"Rogers?" she says, her eyes gleaming, lips curling into a proud smile.

"Rogers," he confirms. "I want to keep my P.I. business separate from my business as a novelist," he tells her. "At least as much as possible," he says, knowing how difficult this might become.

He pulls his happy mother and daughter back into another embrace – feeling – for the first time in over a month – like a man ready to embark upon a new mission. Feeling – for the first time in over a month – like a man ready to do something important again.

He makes a mental note to call Jerry, who has been showing him a number of properties that – now that he can be honest with himself since he has passed the exam – he really didn't allow himself to get too excited about. Not yet. Not until he was official.

Not until now.

The laughing in the study is interrupted by his cell phone ringing – and the ring tone brings the small celebration to an abrupt halt. It's a ring tone he hasn't heard in over a month – and one familiar to the two, now frowning women alongside him.

_**State Highway 70, early evening in Late June 2013**_

The full moon is bright overhead, almost lighting – on its own - the road stretched before her as Kate Beckett sits behind the wheel of the rented Ford Focus, travelling the back road along Highway 70/79, heading east towards Memphis. She's just finished her third case in her new role as a Federal Agent; this one a tax fraud/murder investigation in Brownsville, a small town in western Tennessee, population just over 11,000. She's about three miles from Mason – an even smaller town on the way – and should be in Memphis within the hour. A quick check-in at the airport hotel, and she can shower, and put another small town behind her and get back to Washington, D.C.

Her first three cases have been . . . well, not what she anticipated when she took the job in D.C. She was expecting political intrigue, more interesting cases, and a lot more action. Instead, she's found herself assigned to a few non-descript cases in Idaho, Maine and now Tennessee.

"_These cases mattered to somebody,"_ she tells herself, and it's true. While not the glamorous, high-profile jobs she expected, it still is – end the end – about people, about families, about closure. She smiles – despite her inner frustration and impatience – at another job well-done.

The Sirius satellite station – thank God for coverage even out here – is set to the 1970's. Yeah, it definitely is before her time, but there's something about the music from the 70's that just fits her. She relates to the music and the words from those old artists. Right now she hears the opening piano riff from an old Roxy Music song that she hasn't heard before. The lyrics talk to her from the car speakers.

_The sky is dark,_

_The wind is cold_

_The night is young,_

_Before it's old and gray_

_We will know_

_The thrill of it all_

"Sounds pretty appropriate," she thinks to herself. It certainly describes her state of mind right now. A month into the job, she needs to shake herself out of these doldrums. And she knows that the types of cases she has been assigned isn't the only thing bugging her.

She's been thinking about calling the writer for the past week now.

Her first week? Well, she was able to absorb herself in the move, in the transition – the meeting of new people, a new staff, a new boss, a new city, a new apartment. She thought about him, yeah, but she knows him. He will call in another week or so.

The second week? She still thinks of him, just as much, and each time her phone rings, she frowns a bit, because it isn't _his_ ring tone. She knows he has hurt him, and it does kill her, it really does. But she has hurt him before, and they've always gotten past it. She doesn't mean this to be callous – just truthful. She did hurt him, she has done it before, and they've resolved things.

Always.

The third week, she begins to get truly concerned. She now considers calling him. There's nothing wrong with her reaching out. After all, he did tell her to take the job, he did give her his blessing, more or less. And he kissed her. It was soft, and sweet. She licks her lips, remembering that kiss. Why hasn't he called?

Then last week, she started getting angry. Then remorseful. Then angry again. An edge has started to creep in. This is being shot all over again, this separation. Only the last time, she instigated it. This time, he instigated it, to her way of thinking. Didn't he? But what should she do? The last time they had an impasse like this, it took damn near over three months for them to connect again. She doesn't have three months – she can't do three months – not of this nonsense.

The song seems to knock on her shoulder, whispering sage advice to her – encouraging her, begging her to take the initiative. Don't waste another day.

_The time has come_

_It's getting late_

_It's now or never_

_Don't hesitate or stall_

_When I call, don't spoil_

_The thrill of it all_

"But you haven't called," she says to the blue and green lights of the dashboard in front of her, staring at the monotonous white lines on the road which pass by again . . . and again . . . an endless streak of lines and dots that laugh at her, that mock her.

Her mind made up, she grabs her phone that sits on the passenger seat. Trying to keep her eyes on the road, she punches up his contact information, and is greeted by a small picture icon of the smiling writer.

She hesitates for another few seconds, and then punches SEND. She waits a few seconds, listening to the ringing tone, for the first time now remembering that she didn't sync her phone with the car's software. She'll have to do this call the old-fashioned way: one hand on the steering wheel, and one hand holding the phone.

Suddenly, the ringing stops, and she hears that familiar, long-ago voice.

"Hello, Beckett," he says by way of greeting. The voice doesn't sound happy to hear from her, nor is it unhappy. It's strangely – and uncomfortably – neutral. In reality, he is picking his stomach up from his groin, some thousand plus miles away.

"Hey, Castle," she says, trying to keep the joy out of her voice, and barely succeeding.

There is a brief silence, as for a few seconds, neither knows what to say. Her heart sinks. They've danced so well for almost five years, yet right now she feels them stumbling over each other's feet. After a few seconds of more silence, she tries to re-start the conversation.

"Hey, you wouldn't believe where I am," she offers, hoping he will bite. He does, thankfully.

"Well, my first guess would be D.C.," he tells her, and suddenly his stomach drops again – dammit. He wonders, briefly, if she is back in New York City for a case. He really doesn't want to see her right now.

He very much would like to see her.

He's not ready to see her.

Not yet. Not until it's all gone. He's promised himself not to get sucked into the perfect storm that is Kate Beckett – all of the beauty and fierceness he loves in a woman packed into a single perfect package.

But without the loyalty. Without the transparent honesty.

"Not even close, Castle," she tells him. "I'm coming up on Mason, Tennessee," she drawls with her best southern imitation.

"The mecca of modern entertainment, as I understand" he chuckles, and the smile that lights up her face stretches her cheeks wider than they have been in weeks.

"You'd be surprised," she tells him. "Just finishing a case out here in Western Tennessee. A little IRS murder mystery, believe it or not."

"Well, they have to pay taxes everywhere, I guess," he offers her. Why in the hell has she called him? And why now? It's been over a month. He idly thinks about their last hiatus, and then tells himself that she is actually a couple of months early this time. The realization raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, and it seems they murder people everywhere, too," she says.

There is another awkward pause, and this time he picks up the conversation.

"So, what can I do for you, Special Agent Beckett," he tries, his voice slightly upbeat.

"Nothing," she smiles. "I just . . . I just wanted to hear . . . I just missed your voice, is all," she tells him. "I didn't realize it would be so long before we talked again when I . . . when I left."

"_Well, I didn't think we would talk again this soon,"_ he thinks to himself, but hey – she did call – he will be civil. After all, tonight's a good night, and even she can't ruin his mood.

He hopes he is right.

"Well, I guess we've both been busy," he gives her. "Traveling much?"

"Yeah, a few cases in small towns in places I've never been before," she says, understating precisely how she feels about her first tastes of federal investigations. "What about you? What are you up to?"

He debates telling her, for a second, but decides that his new life doesn't wait for – or hide from – anyone. And if they are going to be communicating – which is still a surprise to him – she's going to find out sooner or later. He glances over at the two red-heads, who continue to frown at him. He gives them his best Richard Castle smile, getting an eye roll from both of them, as Alexis leaves the study. Martha stays, wandering over to the loveseat and sitting down.

"Well, truth is, I was just printing out my new private investigator license that I just received," he tells her.

Kate Beckett is quiet for a few long seconds. There are quite a few responses that would have sounded in line with 'her' Richard.

"I've been writing – just finished my latest book."

"I just came up with a new plot for my next book."

"To be honest, I've hit a bit of writers block."

"Martha, Alexis and I are in the Hamptons for the summer."

But essentially, _"Hey, I'm gonna be a P.I. and keep working cases"_ was not on the list of expected responses.

"That's . . . that's great, Castle," she says, unable to hold the surprise out of her voice, which gives him a bit of childish satisfaction. "It's unexpected . . . but hey, you always were a tremendous help to us, you know that," she says, now trying unabashed compliments as an icebreaker.

"Yeah, that's what Javi said when he suggested the idea to me," he tells her.

"_Esposito!?"_ she wonders with even greater surprise. But why be surprised, her guys have been friends with Castle for years now. Why wouldn't they stay in touch, stay friends.

Her guys.

Not anymore.

"Hey, is that Roxy Music I hear in the background?" he asks her. Being a bit older than her, their music is better known to him. "I haven't heard that one in years," he says.

"Yeah, that's what the read-out says", she answers, glancing down at the digital read-out on the radio screen.

They talk – they chit-chat really, for another few minutes, as neither seems to know quite how to do this anymore. She thought they would fall back into their playful banter more easily than this. It is disappointing, to say the least.

"So, do you think your investigations will bring you to our nation's capital anytime soon?" she asks him. She's been trying to think of how to ask the question for the past couple of minutes. She would love to see him. For his part, he knows seeing her would be both nice and painful. His mind races for the appropriate answer.

"If it did, it doesn't sound like you'd even be there," he finally says, settling on a deflecting response – his way of not answering her real, unasked questions that she wants answers to.

"_Would you like to see me?"_

"_Will I see you again?"_

It's not what she wanted to hear. But it's not _'no'_ either. Regardless, it still leaves her strangely sad. This is not the same Richard Castle. Something is different. Yeah, he was cold when she first walked into the bookstore after essentially disowning him for a few months after her shooting last year. But within the hour, they were at the swing sets – reconciling – re-connecting – starting their unique dance again. Like they always do.

Did.

He's had enough of the conversation for one night. He isn't ready for any more of these types of potentially intimate questions. He is surprised she called, and surprised at her line of questioning. He can't get sucked in again. Not again. Not now, at least.

"Well, Agent Beckett," he tells her, "I have two red-headed beauties that are staring at me, wondering when we're going to get some dinner," he lies. He glances at his watch. 8:55 p.m. She knows they are known to grab late night meals, so it is believable. He smiles at his quick thinking.

"Okay, Castle," she says, the disappointment oozing through the phone. He should feel another ping of self-satisfaction, but surprisingly, he doesn't.

"It was good to hear your voice," she tells him, knowing that his response will tell her so, so much about where they are.

"It was nice talking to you," he tells her, and her smile fades.

Neutral. Damn.

"_I love you."_ It's right on her lips. _"Say the words, dammit,"_ she tells herself. _"They will be harder to say the longer you wait. You know this, Kate!"_

But the moment, the opportunity passes before her courage can win out.

"You take care, Kate," he says, and his tone tells her that all that's left to say is goodbye.

"You, too, Cas- " she pauses. "You, too Rick."

"Bye," she hears him say, and she hears herself say the same word in return. She is rewarded with a click and then silence.

She stares at the phone for a second, and then tosses it sideways back to the passenger seat. She's not angry. She's not upset. She's not frustrated.

She's lying to herself.

The words from more than a month ago from her best friend flash across her mind – as she sees Lanie Parish in her windshield speaking to her.

"_Girl, I'm not sure that there still __is__ a 'you and Castle' at this point."_

_**Richard Castle's Loft, same evening, Late June 2013**_

He clicks END on his cell phone, ending the call. His eyes find those of Martha Rogers, who continues to sit impassively on his love seat.

"I'm really not hungry, Richard," she tells him, her eyes twinkling, and he chuckles with her. "Why Richard Castle, I didn't know you had that in you," she smiles.

"You know what," he tells her, walking over to his iMac, and punching up YouTube. "I didn't either."

He clicks on the search-space, and types in the name of the song he heard playing in the background during his conversation with Kate Beckett. Finding it, he hits PLAY, and turns the volume up. He wasn't lying to her. It has been awhile since he has heard this song. But the song is very fitting for his mood, for his future.

"You still love her, don't you," his mother asks, knowingly.

"Yep."

"And you're not going to tell her," she asks, more a statement than a question.

"Nope."

"That's my boy," she says, as she spins slowly and walks toward the door leading out of his study. "You know, I actually could do with a bite to eat," she smiles back at him.

"Grab Alexis, and give me a couple of minutes," he tells her, and she nods as she walks out the door, calling for the younger woman.

He smiles, and then sits on the arm of the loveseat, closing his eyes, taking in the lyrics from the song playing through his computer speakers.

_Every word I use_

_Each crumpled page_

_Strange ideas_

_Mature with age_

_Like leaves_

_When autumn falls_

_Turn gold_

_Then they hit the ground_

He continues smiling, and nods his head. "Strange ideas, indeed," he says aloud, his eyes remaining closed as he takes in the familiar lyrics that are coming back to him now.

"What strange ideas, Dad?" asks his daughter, who has managed to creep back into his study without alerting him.

"Nothing, pumpkin," he tells her. "Just words to song," he says, closing the browser – and the music – on his computer. "Just words to a song."

**A/N:** The lyrics used in this chapter are from a really cool song called 'The Thrill of it All', by Roxy Music, written by Bryan Ferry. And by cool, I mean if you like 1970's avant garde rock – which I do. Just setting up a few things with this chapter. And a shout out to BigKahuna – you know what for!


	6. Chapter 6

**The Wonder: Chapter 6**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Minot International Airport, Mid-July 2013**_

It's just a few minutes past noon, as Federal Agent Kate Becket sits upstairs in the Hangar Grill, on the second floor of the small city airport in North Dakota. She stares out the window, wondering exactly how the small airport received its 'International' designation.

"It's because we handle customs from Canada," the ever-attendant bar waiter had told her. Clearly the young man – in his late twenties – is smitten with the federal agent, as he is paying her far more attention than the two tables of older businessmen along the window.

And those are the only other tables in use right now in the entire restaurant.

She idly muses back on the case she has just closed. Even though it was another rural, relatively easy case - at Minot Air Force Base, roughly fifteen miles from the city – it was easily the most exciting case she has been assigned since moving to Washington, D.C. But that's not saying much at all.

A local Minot man, with a linkage to terror cells in North Africa of all places, showed up dead in at his small home some twenty minutes from the base. The strangle marks along his neck left no doubt that this was a job for homicide with the local police. However, a small mini-tablet was found in his living room, under the sofa. Upon closer investigation, it was discovered that the tablet belonged to a now-AWOL Lt. Colonel from the 5th Bomb Wing at the base. That, of course, got the attention of the military base police. The identity of the local man, and his potential ties to terrorist, had gotten the attention of the Feds.

Subsequently, Kate Beckett had descended upon the scene to determine if any information, any secrets, had been passed. As the officer was a B-52 pilot, Kate was expecting interesting things out of this case. Unfortunately, as she has been in her previous cases, Kate ended up disappointed with this outcome as well.

Turns out the local man was having an affair with the Lt. Colonel's wife, who found out about the two. Needless to say, banging the wife of a career soldier has its drawbacks, as the local had found out the hard way. The Lt. Colonel had followed his wife to the house, and ambushed the man after she had left some 60 minutes later.

Just an hour. But enough time for the military man's mind to wander to distant shores he'd just rather not visit.

After killing her lover, the bomber pilot then fled and had not been seen for days. The only reason he was eventually connected to the local man, and his murder, was because of the mini-tablet. He had dropped the tablet from his uniform pocket during the scuffle with the man, and somehow during their all-to-brief skirmish, the tablet had been kicked under the sofa. Days later, it was found, and all hell had broken loose on the base, and back in D.C.

So, what she had hoped to be an exciting case of potential espionage – not that she wanted the CIA involved – turned out to be a relatively boring case, working with the base military police for a domestic quarrel turned bad.

The only gratification she gets out of this is the knowledge that it could have occurred during January or February – or any of the six or seven months where the frigid temperatures of North Dakota test the sanity of even the bravest of souls not born or raised in the area. Yeah, it could have been much worse.

So here she waits at the Hangar Grill, wondering how many times the young waiter will come to her table – without her cheeseburger, at that – while waiting for the call for her connecting flight to Minneapolis. From there she will head to home to D.C. So far, this certainly is not the glamorous job she envisioned, or was promised. She is very much cognizant of exactly what she has given up to get to this point.

Friendships. Relationships. A potential marriage?

Yeah, she is more than cognizant of _who_ she has given up to get to this point.

She idly wonders about the fairness of it all – and realizes that she is not the first person to give up friendships, to give up relationships for 'the career.' But what if the 'career' isn't all it was cracked up to be.

Is it ever?

These are her thoughts as her phone pings, indicating an incoming text from Director Freedman. She really does want to sit down with the man. Yeah, she knew she'd have to pay her dues, she knew she was going to have to start at the bottom of the old totem pole, but cripes, how far down is the damn thing?

_Director Freedman: Nice job wrapping this up. Fortunate it was not what we feared._

"_He seems nice enough,"_ she muses to herself. _"But he doesn't seem anxious to give me anything with real teeth."_

She finds herself wondering if he already suspected that there was not much to this case when he assigned it to her. She is used to much more than this. Perhaps just a quick conversation, telling him she is ready – she is more than ready – to tackle something with a little more meat on it will open the gates a bit for her.

_Beckett: Thank you, sir. Fairly straight-forward. Looking forward to something more challenging._

Maybe having this conversation via text isn't the most ideal scenario, but the words seem to fly off her fingers and the SEND button is depressed before she can second-guess herself. She shakes the doubts out of her head. She needs more than this. She's given up way too much for this to be all there is.

She thinks of Castle. It's been a week since they have spoken. Once again, she called. It is not lost on her that he has yet to call her since her departure. They've had three conversations, all initiated by her. She has slowly, silently – and sadly – come to the realization that when she left Castle in New York, she _left Castle in New York_.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the return text from her boss.

_Director Freedman: We get the dull and dreary along with the big screen shows. Your time will come._

She frowns at his response. Very non-committal, and right now, she needs something more than this. She types her response again, without thinking. She's tired, she wants to get home, and for the love of God, would this pestering waiter just bring her a cheeseburger!

_BECKETT: Sooner the better, sir. Looking for some of those impact cases you referred to_

She's treading the borderline right now, and she knows it. But what's the worst thing he can do? It's not like he can give her any worse a caseload. Immediately, she knocks on the wooden table as if to ward off any jinxing spirits she may have unleashed with her careless thinking.

"Can I help you?" asks the waiter anxiously, who has incorrectly 'read' her knocking on the table as a request for service.

Kate quickly decides to chill out a bit – or at least to make the attempt. She can start by not taking her frustrations out on an obviously enamored young man just trying to make a buck . . . and a good impression.

"No, actually, I was just knocking on wood," she smiles at him, making his entire day this early in the afternoon.

"Yeah, don't need any more bad luck around here," he agrees amiably, and starts to walk away – finally giving her some peace. For some reason, however, his words cause her to pull him back to the table.

"Bad luck? How so?" she asks, in her most friendly tone.

"Ah, just girl stuff," he tells her, hanging his head sheepishly in embarrassment.

"That bad?" she asks.

"Well, it's just tough when you find out you've been played, y'know?" he tells her, and something about his words cause a quick chill to run down her spine. Her senses suddenly on alert, she presses him further, asking him to continue.

"Yeah, that's always tough," she says. "What happened?"

"My girlfriend. I found out she is only going out with me as a favor to one of her girlfriends who is trying to score with my best buddy. I really liked her, and she says she likes me, but now I'm just not sure."

Kate listens – as best she can – but her mind is in D.C. now. She's wondering.

D.C. is such a political town – could it be that simple? Could that be why she doesn't feel like she's really a part of the team yet? Could that be why she has this nagging feeling in the back of her neck about Director Freedman, who seemed so gung-ho to have her on his team while she was interviewing, but since she arrived has seemed rather unimpressed with her presence.

Was he told to hire her? But who would want her in D.C. And why? Is she just a favor for someone? Her thoughts – and her waiter's story – are both interrupted by the ping from her cell phone.

"Hold on just a second, Okay?" she tells the waiter, as she glances back down at her phone, reading the message.

_Director Freedman: Why don't we talk tomorrow when you get in._

She smiles. Well, at least this is progress. This is good. She won't push him too much when she talks with him. She'll let him set the pace – at least for now. But him being willing to discuss things with her changes her mindset considerably.

An hour later, she leaves an empty plate – well cleaned of the cheeseburger and fries that once adorned it – and heads downstairs to the gate to catch her quick flight to Minneapolis.

_**That same night - Roughly 11:05 p.m. – at Kate Beckett's Georgetown Apartment**_

Kate Beckett sits on top of her bed, her legs crossed. She has yet to pull down the blanket, as she is still probably a good half hour away from climbing into bed.

Alone.

She has just spent the day on airplanes and then cabs and commuter trains from the airport. She enjoys the Metrorail, as it is a comfortable reminder of her New York City roots. She finds the people on the trains far less interested in her day than the cabbies who constantly strike up conversations with the pretty face sitting in the back seat.

She wonders – as she has done all day during her flights back home – exactly what she needs to do to reconnect with her favorite author.

"_One day, we are making love like I have never experienced – and a week later, we aren't even talking,"_ she thinks. The logic just escapes her. How can such intimacy die, be destroyed so quickly and so thoroughly, without any type of indiscretion. No one cheated, no one flirted, no one lied . . .

Well, technically was it really a lie? Or was it just an omission – much like Castle had – a year ago – omitted certain things about a conversation he'd had with a certain Mr. Smith . . .

But then she remembers how angry, how furious she had been with her partner when she found out what he had 'withheld' from her. And he had – as it turns out – far better reason for withholding his information.

Yeah, she knows she has screwed up. But how do you fix it? She's tried calling him, and that just hasn't worked. He's been civil, sure, but she isn't looking for civil. She's looking for passion. She's looking for that old energy that she has – she now realizes – taken for granted.

She reaches for her cell phone. She can call him again. Just to hear his voice. Just so he can hear her voice. Something tells her that he is not completely done with her, although she knows he is trying to get there. If she can just get them talking more frequently, they can restart their dance. They are good at it. Real good.

At least they were.

"_We can be again,"_ she smiles, with a bit of anticipation. _I'll just keep calling him, maybe show up and surprise him some weekend when I can get away," _she thinks.

She picks up her phone, and searches for his contact information. It's late, she knows, but she also knows that he stays up late. He's always been a bit of a night owl. Gosh, the man kept her up at all hours of the night, and not just for the sexual escapades that she so misses right now. Playing games, reading stories, watching movies – the man seemed to come alive once the network news went off the air.

Dear God, she misses the man!

She has been half watching the news, listening with one ear, however, when she sees a familiar face on the screen, and her heart does a quick stutter, as it always does when she sees this man.

The female reporter is talking about a bill being passed earlier in the day, but behind her in the background, is none other than Senator William Bracken, bastard that he is, holding court just off-camera. The reporters words are drowned out by the noise in Kate's ears – and this, too, is a normal occurrence when she sees the man. Her hand instinctively reaches for that spot on her chest, a reminder of what he has done.

She steels herself, as she watches the man speak in the background, and then her heart all but stops, as she drops the phone. Unfortunately, she has already hit the DIAL button, and a somewhat distant, always cordial, but now slightly concerned Richard Castle has answered the phone, and is wondering why Kate Beckett has called him but is not talking.

"Beckett?" he says repeatedly into the phone, with no response from his caller, as he decides whether to just hang up.

Federal Agent Kate Beckett, however, is completely oblivious to these proceedings, though. Her attention is on the tall, slender man in the background who has walked up to Senator Bracken, who has shaken the Senator's hand and received a friendly hug and backslap. The man who clearly knows the Senator well, and is now engaged in a jovial conversation with Bracken that has both men smiling.

Deputy Director Anthony Freedman.

And just like that, the dominos start falling into place.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Wonder: Chapter 7**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, 11:15 p.m. – at Kate Beckett's Georgetown Apartment**_

The news anchorwoman has gone on to the next 'top' story for the night, and is now talking about some type of power outage in the Tyson's Corner area causing traffic problems, among other things for residents there. Kate Beckett, however, is no longer paying attention to the news. Her mind is racing, trying to calculate various probabilities. How ironic that watching just a minute of television has thrown a huge wrench into the entire working mechanism that is her life.

Her mind immediately has hit rewind, and is now replaying as much of her interview with Deputy Director Freedman that she can recall. Twice, he had mentioned to her that she "comes highly recommended". The first time, she had simply politely accepted the praise. The second time, however, her natural curious detective nature forced her to ask who her 'fan' might be. The Deputy Director had simply smiled, and told her not to worry about it.

"He is someone I certainly wouldn't say 'no' to," he had told her. That, in itself, should have sent her instincts on high alert. All of her years on the NYPD force taught her many things, and at the top of that list?

There are no such things as coincidences. If something seems a little too convenient, then it probably is the result of something or someone acting behind the scenes. That type of statement indicates that her boss is being told what to do. Her boss is having his strings pulled. Suddenly, she begins to suspect her entire reason for being here in Washington, D.C., running around the country for cases that – and she tells herself this with as much humility as she can – Captain Gates wouldn't even assign to her junior detectives.

"_Suppose the man who wanted me in D.C. is Bracken,"_ she wonders. _"It doesn't have to be him. It could be anyone. Don't jump to conclusions, Kate."_

She unfurls the towel wrapped around her head, still there after her shower, and allows her auburn hair, still damp, to fall just below her shoulders. She idly runs a hand through as she stares blankly at the television screen.

"_But there are no coincidences. God, the universe, fate – somehow I've been allowed to see this broadcast. I was supposed to see this broadcast," _she tells herself. She drops her head into both hands, mindlessly massaging her scalp. The further down this hole she goes, the darker, the bleaker, the more logical it becomes.

"_I need to find out, for certain,"_ she tells herself. _"But how?"_

That's the question. One approach – one she typically appreciates as a detec – as a former detective is the direct approach.

"_Just go ask the man. Tell him you saw him on television with the Senator. Tell him you didn't realize that he and the Senator were so friendly. See what he says."_

She nods her head at this plan, the first one that has popped into her head, because she is good at reading people. If the Deputy Director becomes nervous in any way at her questioning, then she will know. And there is no reason that he should be nervous about knowing a U.S. Senator, not in his position, unless there is something she isn't supposed to know.

Yeah, she will know if he is hiding something. She trusts her instincts. Instincts she is now cursing for letting her down.

"_Dammit, Kate, how could you do this!" _she chides herself, jumping to conclusions. _"You got so caught up in 'the Feds' wanting you, you got so caught up in a new career, a new direction, that you didn't pay attention to instincts that were probably screaming at you."_

The bile rising in her throat wins the battle, suddenly, as without warning she finds herself sprinting to her master bathroom, and falling in front of the toilet just in time as the final domino of understanding falls into place for her.

If Bracken is pulling Freedman's strings, then Freedman, by extension, unofficially works for Bracken in some capacity. And if Freedman works for Bracken, and she works for Freedman . . .

She retches up the last of her small salad, furious at herself for her stupidity, for her pride, for her –

The ringing of her cell phone slaps her quickly back into the present, as she recognizes a ring tone that she has not heard in months.

Richard Castle.

"_Oh God, I called you,"_ she tells Castle, as though he were a standing there with her, a fly on her wall, a spirit in her room hearing and seeing everything. A second round hurls her head back toward the toilet, preventing her from making it back to her living room to answer her phone. Only now – with her head inside her porcelain shrine – does she remember that she had called Castle, and had completely forgotten about the call when she saw the images on the television. She dare not consider what he must think, what thoughts must be going through his mind as he receives a phone call from his girl . . . from his ex-girlfriend, and hears nothing but background noise.

"I'm his _ex_-girlfriend," she says out loud to the air in her bathroom, and for the first time since she made the trek to Washington, D.C., she finally accepts – with certainty – the reality that she and Richard Castle are no more. Worse, she now understands that the reason there are no more is because she left him.

"I left him," she repeats out loud, as she weeps – feeling her entire world crumbling apart.

_**Mid-July, 11:20 p.m. – at Richard Castle's Loft in New York City**_

He listens to the ringback on his cell phone, frowning more deeply with each ring. She had called him. He's still working on putting her behind him, and having more success than he would have thought. But a phone call at past eleven o'clock at night is never a harbinger of good things.

"_People don't call this late at night just to say hello. Something is wrong," _he had thought to himself. It is the irony of ironies that he is wrong. Kate Beckett was indeed calling just to say hello. Clearly, he does not realize that in the past few minutes since she had hit SEND on her phone, her world was being rocked in a massive way.

The fact that she is not answering concocts a myriad of images in his mind – none of them pleasant for the writer – wondering why she called and didn't say a word, and now wondering why she is not answering.

"_Could be just a butt-dial,"_ he tells himself, and then mentally slaps himself. He has known the woman for five years, and if this was a butt-dial, then it was the first. No, that's not it.

Perhaps she called him, and then became distracted. That's ridiculous, and he doesn't bother considering what happenings a couple of hours south of him could distract her from a late night phone call.

That leaves only a few other possibilities - and none of them bode well in his mind for his ex-partner. For the first time in a couple of weeks, he feels the familiar sadness at the term 'ex'. It is something that, just a few months ago, he would have considered totally inconceivable. He reminds himself that he gave the detective too much credit.

He hits END on the call, ending the unanswered ringing, and tosses his phone disgustedly on the bed, and heads downstairs to get a drink.

"_Damn woman woke me up for –" _he mumbles, not completing the thought. He is frustrated that she called, frustrated that she said nothing, frustrated that she doesn't answer, frustrated that she still frustrates him like this.

And just as quickly, blessedly, it leaves him. The frustration, the futility, the sadness – it leaves. As he walks downstairs, he is aware of the peace that has settled back upon him. She's no longer his problem, nor he hers. By the time he gets to the bottom of the stairs, she is gone from his mind. He flips on a light to illuminate his path to the kitchen, now opting for a bowl of ice cream rather than a drink.

He scoops himself a couple of spoons of pistachio almond ice cream, smiling at the light green coloring and savoring the first taste. He sits on the sofa, and grabs the remote control, and turns on the television. He flips through the channels, finally resting on the SyFy channel, and smiles at the large, mutated piranhas that swim across his screen, humming as he eats his late night treat. Five minutes later, he is dozing asleep, his spoon on the sofa beside him, his bowl of ice cream in his lap.

He does not hear his phone ringing upstairs.

_**Mid-July, 11:30 p.m. – at Kate Beckett's Georgetown Apartment**_

Kate frowns as the high-pitched ringing continues without answer, until finally she hears his voice . . . his recorded voice, asking her – or anyone, really – to leave a message.

She stumbles across her words, trying to decide exactly what to say. There really isn't a reason to think that, A – he even cares that she is calling him, or B – he is still the same Castle who would drop everything, in a nanosecond, for the pleasure of assisting her in any way. She stares at the phone, fully understanding how much she has taken the man for granted – but still not completely understanding why he was so angry, why he felt so betrayed.

People get new job offers all the time. It's not like they were married. She doesn't have to run her entire life past him, for his approval.

She still doesn't get it.

In her defense, her mind is somewhat distracted right now. She has fairly big fish to fry, and her mind is focused on that.

She's been played, she is sure of it. She will verify it tomorrow morning, but she knows the answer, deep down. And she knows what this has cost her, as well.

Suddenly, she realizes that the tone has sounded and she has still left no message. For a second time this evening, she has called the man and not said a word.

"Arrrgh!" she screams, throwing her phone down harshly on her bed. It bounces a couple of times before coming to rest on her pillow. She walks to the window, cursing herself, cursing her luck, cursing the universe for such an evil, horrific trick. Staring out the window at the street below, she finally backs away from the window, and walks back to her bed. She takes the covers back, fluffs the pillows on the left side of her bed, and climbs in. The soft, cool, cotton sheets feel wonderful on this early summer evening. She reaches over to the pillows on the right, grabs her cell phone, and falls back into the comfort of her pillows on the left side. She pulls the covers over her, as she stares at her phone.

She finds herself saying a quick prayer, looking for guidance, looking for the words to say. Seconds later, she begins typing.

_**Roughly 1 a.m. – at Richard Castle's Loft in New York City the next morning**_

The still cold, damp wetness between his legs awakens Richard Castle with a start. He has moved a couple of times during the night on the sofa, knocking the final scoop of his ice cream over. The dessert has melted into his pajama pants. He softly curses, muttering to himself as he lifts the bowl off of his lap, and searches for the spoon. Finding it, he takes both the sink in the kitchen, and promises to wash both in the morning. Right now, he needs to get out of these now sticky – and still somehow cool – pajama bottoms.

Ten minutes later, he steps out of the shower, wrapping himself in a large, oversized beach towel with an image of Boba Fett adorning the front side. He heads to the closet, but changes his mind. Instead of ruining another pair of pajamas, he opts for just boxer underwear, and steps toward his bed. He sees his cell phone blinking at him from the head of the bed, only now realizing that he left the infernal thing here upstairs.

He lies down in his bed, allowing his very tired head to fall slowly into the pillows. He pulls the covers over, and stares at the single message indicator, and then taps it. He reads the message, frowns, then reads it again. Putting his phone down, he turns the bedside lamp off, and drifts back to sleep, pondering the message.

_KATE: Castle, I'm so sorry for tonight. For a lot of things. Something has happened. I need to do something in the morning, but will call you later. Please take my call. Please._

_**Mid-July, the next morning inside Deputy Director Freedman's office**_

Special Agent Beckett sits in one of the large chairs across from the empty chair of Deputy Director Freedman, who has stepped away to grab two cups of coffee. He returns with a smile, offering her a cup of the steaming liquid. She takes the cup, with a harsh sense of déjà vu, reminding her of how much she has lost, left behind. And for what?

She will find out in a moment.

"So, what would you like to talk about, Agent Beckett?" he begins affably. He knows she wants more excitement. He knows she is looking for bigger, more important cases. That's what she is used to. The problem, as he sees it, is that he has senior agents for those cases. She is a favor for someone, not a prize recruit he couldn't sleep over until landing her. Yeah, she's smart, she's tough, she shows a lot of promise.

So do a lot of his people.

"Just looking to make a bigger impact, sir," she tells him, trying to keep the discussion innocent and pleasant. Yesterday, she had one agenda. After last night, that agenda has changed considerably. "I want you to know you can count on me. You brought me here for a reason," she says. She is testing him. She wants to see if he bites.

He doesn't

"You're doing well, Agent Beckett. Just as I knew you would. Don't mistake the tediousness of your assignments as anything negative. We take all of the cases that come to us, exciting or not," he concludes – assuming the conversation is coming to a close. Kate Beckett, however, has other ideas.

"I agree, sir," she says affably. "Don't get me wrong, I know every case is important. I learned that little gem years ago on the police force. It's all about people, in the end," and she smiles internally, to herself, when she sees him nodding his head.

"_Reel him in, Kate,"_ she tells herself. _"Reel him in."_

"Speaking of people, I saw you last night on the Hill, on the news when I got home," she says, and there is no change in his facial expressions whatsoever. "I didn't know you were good friends with Senator Bracken."

There is no change in the man's demeanor. There is nothing that gives him away that he is hiding anything. In fact, to the contrary, the Deputy Director is fairly open with his agent.

"Known him for some time," he smiles, an open and honest smile. "He's quite a fan of yours as well," he tells her.

Bingo.

As he speaks the words, Kate realizes that not only has she been played, but so has her boss. He's probably hired her as a favor to Bracken – that much is crystallizing nicely now. The surprise is that he freely admits it, which tells her that although Deputy Director Freedman may not be a huge fan of hers, and while he didn't hire her because he sought her out – as she had believed – neither is he a willing part of any nefarious scheme masterminded by the Senator.

She is reminded that the best covert operations occur when key principals in the operation are not even aware of their role. The best covert operations take advantage of someone simply doing what they always do. She is reminded of the military background of her adversary, the Senator. She has underestimated him. She should have known that even though she hadn't heard anything from the man, she remains a part of a puzzle he continues to put together.

They continue to talk for a few moments before she politely excuses herself, and walks out of his office to the elevator to go downstairs to her office. He waits until she is gone, counts to thirty, before picking up his phone. He punches in a number and waits a few seconds, listening to the ringing tone in his ear.

"She knows," is all he says when the phone is answered.

"How?"

"Saw you and I together on a newscast last night."

"Hmmm. Okay, had to happen at some point. How did you play it."

"Honestly. Told her you were a big fan. She is looking for better assignments," he tells Bracken.

"_Oh, she is looking for something else, my friend,"_ the Senator thinks to himself.

"You wanted her here, Senator. Care to tell me why?"

"Best you don't know for now, Tony," Senator Bracken tells him. "She's a good agent. I will need her soon. In the meantime, keep her busy. I need her sharp and on her A-game," he lies.

"Why the cloak and dagger stuff? You said you owe her a favor. Why not let her know you've returned the favor?"

It's an innocent question, from the mind and mouth of another of his chess pieces. Freedman isn't a pawn, though. Freedman is a knight. He needs to keep the man positioned properly so he can strike sharply when called upon. And – as much as he allows himself any – Freedman is a friend of sort.

"I will now, my friend. I just wanted her to get her feet wet on her own," he lies yet again.

"Okay. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Nope, we're good, Tony," he tells him. "And Tony?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for the heads up."

"No problem. You take care."

"Likewise," the Senator says, hanging up.

The news is unexpected, but as he told the Federal Director, she would find out eventually. She's not stupid. That's why he needs her here, close, where he can keep an eye on her, and ultimately take her out if necessary.

When necessary.

He doesn't kid himself with 'ifs'. He knows what his ultimate play will be with the ex-detective. He nods his head and smiles as he decides exactly how he is going to play this with his new piece on the board in the nation's capital.

**A/N:** A bit of a slow chapter, I know, but we have to set things up. The first month of the year is gone already. Wow! Hope everyone is having a good 2015 so far.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Wonder: Chapter 8**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Same Day - 10:15 a.m. – at a coffee shop, a mile from Federal HQ**_

Kate Beckett sits by herself at a small table, outside the coffee shop against the rod iron railing surrounding the outdoor eating area. A medium sized umbrella protects her from the battering, summer sun, already in full force this early in the morning. She has walked roughly a mile, across many blocks to reach the small but popular eatery.

Less than half an hour ago she had made a hasty retreat from the building after her enlightening discussion with Deputy Director Freedman. Even though she all but suspected how the discussion would go down – she believes her own eyes, which last night had told her that somehow the Deputy was looking a wee bit too friendly with her sworn enemy – still, hearing the admission straight from his lips has managed to tear a layer of her confidence off, shredding it into small pieces.

Since her mother's murder, Kate Beckett has been focused, on a mission, and very certain of what she wants. Her incredible, nearly inhuman laser focus – some would call it an obsession, while others self-absorption – had propelled her to near legendary status, with a flat-out ridiculous close rate for the NYPD.

So, no – it was no stretch to her imagination whatsoever to learn that news of her performance, her results had – finally – reached the federal level. She'd worked with federal agents successfully in the past, helping bring down a serial killer in Scott Dunn, and helping the city avoid a nuclear catastrophe. Yeah, it made her feel good – great, in fact – to be recognized not only by her peers, but by those at the highest levels of government.

She'd been so excited to jump on the commuter flight to D.C. from New York all those months ago. All those months? Cripes, it's only been two months since the interview, since the offer, since the move.

Since the divorce.

No, she and Richard Castle weren't married, but their separation sure as hell feels like a divorce of sorts. She really thought things were going well with the writer. At least that is her reality today, as she sits at the coffee shop basking in the sun, her mind a jumbled mess of thoughts. The farther she gets from those days in April and May, the more distorted her memory becomes. Gone are the doubts put into her head by Meredith, damn that woman. Gone are the doubts she had about their future. Gone is the titillating thrill of an unexpected kiss from a billionaire bad boy.

All of those doubts, this morning, are distant memories, replaced by a lonely ache, an empty space. All of those doubts have withered into nothing, as if they never existed. In their place, a confused wonder of what the hell happened – a frightened wonder of whether or not she has just lost the love of a lifetime - a dangerous wonder of whether or not she has made a monumental career mistake that she can never recover from.

It's the wondering that is killing her right now.

_I wonder what the hell I was thinking, keeping this from Castle. I wonder why it didn't even occur to me that sharing my business would be so important to him. I wonder how I didn't catch on that someone was pulling Freedman's strings. I wonder why Bracken wanted me in D.C., closer to him. I wonder what Castle is doing now. I wonder if my one-and-done has gone-and-went._

Her mind jumps from her professional predicament to the tattered shreds of her personal life, flip-flopping between the two equally depressing scenarios.

Gathering herself, she takes another sip of the cold lemonade she has chosen this morning, instead of her traditional coffee, and takes her phone out from her purse, and begins typing.

_KATE: Rick, can you talk for a few minutes?_

The sixty-three seconds it takes for Richard Castle to respond drag on for what seems to be an indeterminable amount of time. Every three or four seconds feel like minutes, and so when his reply finally comes through, it feels like she has been waiting twenty or more minutes.

_CASTLE: Sure._

Ok, a one word response wasn't what she was shooting for. But if one word is all he can give her at this point in time, she's thankful that the word isn't 'no'.

She smiles weekly, pulling up his contact information and depressing her SEND button.

"Well, here goes everything or nothing," she says out loud, to herself. Three rings later, she smiles again as she hears his voice.

"Castle."

Hmmm. He's opted to use the last name greeting on the phone. He's taken a page from her book.

"Hey," she says in greeting.

"Hey."

"How are you?" she asks him, trying desperately to pull him into the conversation, to drag some life, some emotion from her one-time partner.

"I'm good," he gives her. Nothing more.

"That's good, that's good," she replies, now wondering why she has called in the first place. That's not good. If nothing else, Richard Castle has always been excited, excitable, loyal and imaginative. This man on the other end of the air is distant, and clearly bored with the proceedings. For a few seconds, her mind retreats back to happier times – she is standing on a bomb with this same man telling her he will never leave her. As if standing on a time bomb can ever be considered happy. Yet today, it absolutely is a happy memory. Because he was –

Suddenly, he interrupts her train of thought.

"Look, let's not do this dance. Last night you said something has happened. What is it? And what's with the calls last night with no talking?"

She can't hide her disappointment, and she is certain that it is seeping through the phone, enveloping him. He's right down to business. She wants to find the lane back to their personal highway. He's avoiding all of the on ramps. What the hell!

She will give this round to him, then. She'll answer his questions. But they are going to talk – really talk. She's going to make him listen.

"It's this job, Castle. As it turns out, it isn't all it was cracked up to be," she says with a resigned sigh. As it turns out, even that proves to be the wrong thing to say at this time.

"Beckett . . ." he pauses, and she can almost see his fingers squeezing his nose in frustration. Dear God, she is only now realizing how much she has missed this.

"Beckett," he finally continues, "Tell me you did not call me – in the middle of the night, last night, at that – just to tell me your job sucks."

Okay, so this was a mistake. He's not ready. She's not fully certain what she has done to hurt him so badly. He told her to go. He told her that this was good for her. He was supportive of her. He doesn't lie about things like this. She's ready – but he isn't.

It occurs to her, for just a passing blow of the wind – that he may never be ready again, but she sighs such thoughts out of her mind. He will come around. She can't hold the sadness out of her voice.

"I thought we could talk about anything. About everything," she says quietly.

"So did I," he offers, without any hesitation.

"So what happened?" she asks, the emotion in her words now fully evident.

"You decided some things weren't important enough to talk about."

"Castle," she says, with a little desperation and even more exasperation, "It was _my_ interview, _my_ opportunity, not –"

"Beckett," he interrupts, forcefully, "Just stop. The silence on the line is deafening for a few seconds before he continues.

"When you can honestly say that you understand how truly awful what you have just said sounds . . . _then_ call me. _Then_ we can talk. Until then . . ."

He pauses, not for any effect, but just to find the right words, the words that he won't regret later. In the end, he gives her the only words he has.

"Just don't call me."

She finds herself listening to air – and it is a few more seconds before she realizes that he has hung up. In these next seconds, the magnitude of her folly begins to settle in.

"_Stupid, stupid, stupid,"_ she tells herself. This was her chance to come clean. How in the hell did she manage to muck this up, again!?

_**Same Day – immediately after their phone conversation, at Castle's Private Investigator office front**_

Richard Castle sits, with his cell phone still in his hand, staring at Martha Rodgers, who sits on the bar stool at the kitchenette island in his business office. She wears a colorful red and yellow blouse to go with red pants. It is a typical Martha outfit, albeit quite early in the morning.

She has come this morning to check in and visit with her son at his new business digs. Located just a block away from their loft home, Castle had chosen this second floor venue primarily for its proximity to his home. At 1,200 square feet, it offers plenty of room, with a large entry area, a kitchenette with a small table, a restroom with a shower that he had installed, and his large office in the back. Decorated much like his home, his office consists of a large mahogany desk with an oversized chair up against the window, and a large sofa with a long coffee table. He can work, relax, shower and even sleep here if necessary, keeping any potential danger away from his home.

He's been here less than two weeks, but he is proud of his little office. It's his first office of his own since . . . well, ever, now that he thinks about it. Being a writer, he has always worked out of his own home. Having a place to go and work has turned his home into the escape that a home should be.

Martha sits and stares at her son, who continues to stare into the bright sun coating the side window where he stands. A despondent frown is painted across his face.

"Well, there is only one person in the world I know that can do this to you," she says, sipping on her cup of coffee he had provided her before his phone call.

His answer is continued silence. In truth, his mind is pretty much a blank right now. He knows his mother wants to talk about it, he knows she only wants to help. But right now, he's had about enough of Katherine Beckett to last awhile. The woman is absolutely maddening. How she still can't see the forest for the trees is beyond him. No one can be that selfish, that self-centered. This just doesn't make any sense.

"Richard, talk to me," he hears his mother saying.

"Mother, not now," he says, trying his best to remain cordial, but failing. His tone lashes out, just slightly but still enough to do its damage. He immediately backtracks.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he says, now leaving the comfort of the window and walking towards his mother. "That was unfair. I hate what she does to me."

"Yes, well, I can't say that I am a big fan right now, either," she tells him. She gives him a moment, allowing him to apologize with his arms, wrapped tightly around her shoulders, his head resting atop hers.

"You want to talk about it?" she asks, her eyes glancing upward at him, making her look no more than 5 years old, and bringing a smile to his face.

"Ah, there he is," she kids.

"You just don't quit, Mother."

"It's a chore, trust me," she tells him, smiling.

"Nothing has changed. She called to tell me her job isn't going well."

"_That's_ why she called?" Martha asks, incredulously. "After all this time, no apology, no 'what have you been doing?', no "I miss you?"

"No, no, and . . . that would be no, again."

She stares at him for a few seconds, not sure what to say.

"Yeah," he says, knowing exactly what she is thinking.

"Do you think the two of you will ever . . ."

She allows her question to die off, because she knows that he doesn't have an answer right now. She knows he is still angry with her, disappointed with her, disappointed in himself. He doesn't like the woman very much right now. She knows this. But she also knows that he still loves her. You can't love a woman for four, five years, following her around, living and breathing her round the clock and then just shut those feelings off. Even with the pain she has caused him, the pain she is still causing him, she sees the heartache.

She is glad, however, that the heartache is, in fact, lessening. He isn't there yet, but he is getting there, and far more quickly than she would have imagined.

"I don't know, Mother," he answers. "I don't see how. A year ago . . ."

He pauses, releasing her from their embrace, and walking back toward the kitchen to grab himself a cup of coffee to go with hers.

"It was just over a year ago, she told that I was all she wanted. She just wanted me. A year later, she tells me that this is her life and, essentially, I am included in what she wants me included in. So, I ask you, Mother – you tell me. How do I reconcile that?"

"Maybe you don't, kiddo," is her immediate response, with no hesitation. "Maybe you don't."

A knock at his front door interrupts them, and she can tell from his startled reaction that he is not expecting anyone. Not here, at his business front. His startled expression quickly turns to one of excitement and anticipation. She smiles, at the thought that she would be fortunate enough to be here for his very first client.

A few quick steps and he reaches the door, opening it with a bit of dramatic flair, in typical Castle fashion.

"Good morning, and welcome to –"

His words are cut off as he stares into large, beautiful green eyes. His eyes drift down to red-brushed lips and curls of dirty blonde hair cascading down. He knows this woman. The last time he saw her, he had stolen a kiss – all a part of the job, of course. His mouth hangs open, embarrassingly, and it draws a pleasant response from the knockout who stands outside his door.

"Serena?"

"It's nice to know you remember me, Mr. Castle," she tells him. "May I come in?"

"Certainly, certainly," he says, stepping aside, recovering quickly, and wondering what exactly would bring insurance investigator and – according to some rumors – master thief, Serena Kaye back into his life, now of all times.

"Good. Because I need your help," she says as she walks through the door into his office.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Wonder: Chapter 9**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Same Day – Still at Castle's New Private Investigator's Office**_

Serena Kaye walks through the door - past Richard Castle – into his office flat, taking in her surroundings and the décor. An art connoisseur, she finds herself nodding in appreciation at the tasteful decorations, and pieces of art on the walls, and finds herself, yet again, surprised by the author. Her past dealings with Castle only traversed a few days, but she learned much about the man in that time.

Imaginative, but fenced in, he was able to help solve the mystery of the 'stolen' piece she was hired to retrieve. And, he had managed to steal a kiss in the process. Athough she admits to feeling somewhat used in the ruse, she had to admire how he had turned the tables, using his charm to distract her from other purposes. That was normally _her_ game.

She finds herself staring at the large elephant, painted in gray, soft blue tones, hanging on the far wall. Walking towards the piece, she nods in satisfaction.

"John Pitri. Original," she says smiling. "Not one of his usual, traditional pieces," she adds, admiringly.

"I like elephants," Castle responds, walking behind her. He takes in her mid-cut red dress, similar to another red dress he has seen her wear. Like the previous one, this dress does nothing to hide the curves on her statuesque body.

"Curious about your thoughts," he tells her, as Martha comes alongside him. "You being an insurance investigator and all," he says, letting the sentence die.

"They are very nice, Richard," she says, using his first name, and drawing a raised eyebrow from his mother. He squashes it immediately.

"That _is _my name, Mother," he whispers out of Serena's range.

"You said you needed my help, Serena," he continues with his guest, brushing down his mother's questions before she can voice them. "What can I do for you?"

"And a Christian Lassen," she continues, ignoring him for the moment as she walks along the wall, admiring the exquisite pieces of art. She's never been in Castle's home or his new place of work, so this is the first time she gets to see what the man surrounds himself with. She knows that how one decorates their surroundings says much about who they are, about what they value. The art she sees tells her much about Richard Castle.

"Yes, probably my favorite piece," he tells her.

"What's it called?" she asks him.

"It's called Secret Place," he tells her, and she watches as his eyes wander away, a small smile forming at the corners of his lips – a good memory, she realizes.

"That was a wonderful trip," Martha says suddenly, and Castle turns to her, smiling broadly now.

"Serena, my mother, Martha Rodgers," he says by way of introduction.

"Delighted," Serena tells her, shaking the older woman's hand, while Castle starts filling in the blanks on the trip in question.

"Alexis was . . . what would you say, Mother? Nine? Ten?"

Martha nods her head, recalling their time in the Maui art gallery almost ten years ago.

"We were in Lahaina, the old whaling town. Big tourist attraction now, lots of shops, lots and lots of restaurants –"

"I know Maui well, Mr. Castle," Serena tells him. "I've been a couple of times, stayed in the Wailea area."

"Beautiful place," he agrees, nodding. "We stayed in the Kaanapali area. Cool beaches. Good golf. It was just Alexis, Mother and I, and we –"

"No date? Just you, your mother and . . . daughter, I presume?" she asks.

"Yep. One of our best vacations. Alexis' first time snorkeling. It was spring break, so we were there at the tail end of whale-watching season. Saw her first humpback," he says, smiling at the memories, recalling the pure joy on his daughter's face.

"We saw so many sights on that trip on the island, and then we found this picture during their Friday night artist night," he says, pointing her attention back to the Lassen piece. "Lassen painted multiple locations from the island into a single painting, and we thought it was so beautiful to have one piece that depicted so many of the places we had been."

"Show me," she says, moving closer to the painting. He steps closer to both the painting and insurance investigator, who has placed her hands up to the glass protecting the painting, but not touching it.

"Right here is the Io Valley," he tells her, pointing to an area on the painting.

"I remember that. Beautiful place," she nods.

"Here is the last bridge on the road to Hana," he says, pointing a bridge out on the painting. "We visited the seven pools, got to swim in the last one that leads to the ocean. Have you ever taken the road to Hana in your visits?"

"Yes. Well worth it, too. Freezing water, coldest I've ever been in," she laughs, her mind now filled with her own memories.

"I know, right!" he says excitedly, recalling Alexis screaming in the frigid waters, while he tried his best, unsuccessfully, to pretend the water temperature was 'just right.'

"So your art means something to you, Mr. Castle," she says. It is not a question, but a new observation of the man she barely knows, but for some reason is going to trust with an important request.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I would take a guess that you can tell me something personal, something memorable about each of the pieces here – you didn't buy them for re-sale value, or just to collect. Each one means something to you."

He nods, marveling a bit at her recognition. Most people who have seen his art simply assume him to be a collector, and never really question him on the pieces. He smiles at the chance to relive the memories each one holds. He thinks of his daughter, off to college now . . .

"Anyway," she says, moving away from the painting and now back toward the center of room. "I didn't come to appreciate your art, although I do very much," she says smiling.

"Didn't think so," he says softly, moving toward his desk and half leaning, half sitting on the corner of the furniture.

"I think that is my cue to take my leave, Richard," Martha says, gathering her purse and walking toward the door. "It was nice to meet you, Serena."

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Castle," she tells her.

"Rodgers," Martha corrects her as she closes the door behind her, leaving a questioning look on the face of the insurance investigator.

"I took the name Castle for writing purposes," Castle tells her, and she nods her head knowingly. "So, you are here because . . ."

He lets the sentence die, asking the question that has been on his mind for the past ten or so minutes.

"I heard, just a week ago, that there was a new private investigator in our town with a little notoriety all his own," she tells him, amiably. "When I discovered it was you, I filed that information away, figuring it might come in handy."

"And?" he asks.

"And . . . well, 'handy' came much sooner than I would have anticipated," she smiles. "A very valuable sculpture has been stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, worth approximately fourteen million dollars. I need your help in recovering it, and finding the thief."

Castle stares at her for a few seconds, and starts looking around his office for hidden cameras, as his brand new office area was just completed in the last few days.

"Okay, Serena, very funny," he offers, with a hint of disgust. "Am I being punked already? What's really going on?"

"No joke, no 'punking' Castle. You were invaluable in helping me find the missing Fist of Capitalism sculpture – no one else suspected that the piece was still hidden in relatively plain sight in the museum. Only you-"

"Yeah, and that cost me a very, very pretty penny," he tells her.

"As I recall, it was considerably more than a pretty penny," she chuckles.

"But why involve me? This is your area of expertise. I'd only be stumbling around and getting in the way," he tells her.

"Well, I need you to help clear the main suspect," she tells him, her face serious.

"Personal friend of yours?" he asks.

"No, it's slightly more than that," she says, now moving to the sofa and seating herself. "Their primary suspect appears to be me."

_**Mid-July, Same Day - 11:45 a.m. – now back at Kate Beckett's D.C. Apartment**_

"Thanks for taking me in on such short notice, Dr. Burke, but I just . . . I feel things spiraling out of control right now."

"It's no problem, Kate – you know that. I'm just glad I had an opening – quite rare for the same day," the psychologist tells her. "I hope you don't mind if I eat my sandwich while we talk," he says, keeping her on speakerphone and taking a bite of his roast beef sandwich.

She had, on a whim, called the good doctor with the hope that she could schedule some time to talk with him as soon as possible. When she relayed her request to Wendy, the doctor's receptionist, she figured she would schedule her for a day or two out. But with fingers crossed, she smiled with relief when Wendy gave her the surprising news.

"You're in luck, Detective Beckett," Wendy had told her. "Dr. Burke had a cancellation last night for later this morning. If you are available, I can put you down for 11:45."

"11:45 today?" Kate asked, not believing her good fortune, and not bothering to update the receptionist on her change of job and title.

"Yep, today," Wendy had said, and Kate could almost feel her smiling at the other end.

So here she sits, in her apartment, talking to a man whom she has not spoken to in months. She had continued seeing Dr. Burke for a while after she and Castle had become an item, officially. After all, he was helping her through a number of issues, not just one Richard Castle. She had continued seeing him for a few months after that, before they agreed to consider her on 'walk-in' status. However, walk-in has turned to 'phone-a-friend' with Kate's departure to D.C.

"So, what can I do for you, Kate? How is D.C. treating you?"

"Well, that's just it, Doctor. Not well at all – on so many fronts."

"Tell me about it," he says.

"Where do I start?" she has, with a dispirited chuckle that the doctor does not miss.

"Where do we always start, Kate?"

"Funny," she tells him, with little humor. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"Begin with that which is most important on your mind."

She gives the question a few seconds of thought. Her job – a job she has thoroughly bought into, is turning out to be a sham of sorts. A mirage. It is not what she thought it was. Her relationship with Castle? Much the same.

"It's this job, and it's Castle," she gives him.

"Pick one to begin with," he tells her.

She pauses for a moment, brushing her hands through her hair, as she considers the conversation with Deputy Director Freedman this morning, and her subsequent phone conversation with Castle.

"I took a job that I thought was one thing, but it is turning out to be anything but. I thought they wanted me here because of my credentials. As it turns out, their reasons for wanting me here have less to do with my worthiness, and more to do with someone pulling strings that should have been left well alone."

The doctor puts his sandwich down, jotting a couple of notes on his keyboard, staring at the screen in front of him.

"Does this person pulling the strings have a name?"

"Best you don't know, doctor," she tells him, not wanting to potentially endanger the man.

"Fair enough. Continue."

"Well, they've had me running around the country on little odds and ends jobs. I know they are important at some level, but . . . and maybe this is just me being naïve, but I thought I would get more interesting, more out-of-the-box jobs. I was led to believe that's why they brought me here. For my experiences with jobs that were . . . different."

"And this 'they' you speak of; do you believe they are favorable or unfavorable to you? Do you feel their plans are good, or do you feel they are a danger to you?"

"Interesting question, doctor," she says, half smiling. The man is perceptive.

"Not really, Kate. We're just over a year from you being shot by an assassin. If you feel someone has pulled you to D.C. under less than honest terms, then we have to consider all possibilities, don't we?"

"Absolutely, doctor. I'm just impressed you but that together so quickly."

"Well, Kate, you _do_ pay me for a reason," he laughs, and she laughs with him. "And I _have_ been paying attention during the last year or so."

"So – all cards on the table, Dr. Burke. There is someone here that I believe means me harm. He and I had, however, come to a form of a truce because of . . . well, the why isn't important right now. What's important is that we had an agreement, and now I believe he may be breaking that agreement. I just can't figure out why he wants me here in D.C."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well," she answers, sipping on her bottled water, "he lives here, he works here. If I am here . . . well, theoretically I have better access to him, to what he might be doing, better opportunities to stop him if I need to."

He considers her words, and she can hear him typing on his keyboard. She can picture his sandwich sitting by the computer screen. It is a familiar image, one she has seen many of time during her sessions with the doctor.

"So he wanted you in D.C.," he says, taking a quick bite again. "I assume it is out of the question that there is something he would like for you to do for him there . . ."

He lets the question die off, allowing her to decide which avenue to take.

"That is unlikely, doctor. That would be a break from his normal behavior."

"So that leaves only a couple of other likely scenarios, doesn't it?" he asks her, taking a sip from his Diet Coke.

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it, Kate."

She gulps down another swallow of her water, her mind doing the arithmetic. She's been offered a great job, one that really appeals to her. Yet when she gets here, the daily business of the job is far from what was advertised. And it turns out that her resume was far from the tipping factor for landing the job. It was a . . . it was a _favor_ done by Freedman for Bracken. Bracken didn't just vouch for her. He didn't just give her the thumbs-up. He is likely behind Freedman reaching out to her in the first place. He wanted her here. He _placed_ her here. But why? She hears the doctor talking again.

"Kate. Kate are you there?"

"Yes. Yes, doctor. Just thinking."

"Talk it out."

She nods her head, recognizing the method her doctor uses with her. It's been very effective for her in the past, and she finds herself already appreciating the few minutes time she has spent on the phone with him.

"Someone wanted me here, in D.C.," she responds. "And not so I could do something for him. There's been no rhyme or reason to the jobs I have been assigned. I'm just being kept busy," she says, the realization crystalizing as the words leave her mouth.

"So you aren't there to handle something for them, or him," Burke repeats.

"No."

"Then why are you there, Kate?"

She glances out her window at the structures. It's a beautiful city, a beautiful area. It didn't take her nearly as long to get used to it as she suspected it would. The puzzle pieces are slowly but surely starting to fall into place.

"He and I are _not_ friends," she gives him, thinking out loud.

"Are you enemies, Kate," Dr. Burke asks, smiling at how quickly she is starting to put things together.

"Yes, we are," she says, nodding her head. Her sadness, her frustrations are gone for now. They have been replaces with a now-simmering anger, and a focus on the task at hand.

_Good. I'm tired of being frustrated. Angry is good_.

"And what do you do with your enemies, Kate?"

She pauses, understanding now seeping in, as she recognizes the potential thought processes of her adversary.

"You keep them close. Closer than your friends."

"Good. That is one option. A viable one. That you are there because someone wants to keep an eye on you."

_If that is true, then he has something planned. He has something going on that he doesn't want me finding out about. Something he couldn't chance I would stumble across in New York, and so he has brought me here so he can keep a watch on me. He has brought me here to . . ._

"He wanted me out of New York," she says solemnly, her head slumping slightly.

"And_ that's_ the other option," he tells her, nodding his head in agreement. "Which one do you think is more likely, Kate?"

He hears her sigh on the other end of the line, and it makes him smile. He has seen enough of Kate Beckett in person so that he still can see her face scrunch a bit, the crease in her forehead. He can see the wheels turning. He knows that she is putting it all together, and she talks it out only to hear herself. She doesn't need his feedback right now. She is well on the way to putting the final pieces into place.

"He wanted me out of New York. Something is happening there, and he couldn't risk me coming across whatever it is." She is standing now, pacing her living room, her anger now building with each step. Dr. Burke waits for the explosion he knows, from experience, is coming.

"Dammit, he moved me around like I am nothing more than a piece on his personal board game," she fumes. "And dammit, I should have seen this."

"How could you have known, Kate?"

"Because it's the Feds," she hisses. "I've always thought of these three-letter guys as . . . as . . . well, whatever, I never thought they had anything on us, except more budget, more toys."

She thinks about Jordan Shaw, and the village of gadgets she brought to the table. She thinks about where Will Sorenson likely is, and the toys at his disposal. She thinks of Mark Fallon from the Department of Homeland Security, and how it was she and Castle who helped save the city from a nuclear terrorist – not Fallon.

_Castle._

She puts him out of mind, for another moment.

"_Focus, Kate. We're almost there,"_ she tells herself.

"I've worked with the Feds on some high profile cases over the last few years. High profile cases. A mass serial killer. A nuclear terrorist. There has been enough evidence of my capabilities for them to see for a couple of years now if they were interested in recruiting me," she says. She speaks with no pride, no self-congratulatory intent. She's just laying down the simple facts, as they are.

"Which means . . ." Burke does not finish, knowing she needs to say the words herself.

"Which means I should have known that someone coming out of the woodwork now, coming to me with an offer now, instead of _back then_ . . . I should have at least suspected something was amiss."

"It sounds like you were _ready_ to leave," he tells her. "If your normal instincts didn't warn you, then perhaps the offer came at a time when you were ready for something different, but may not have realized it yet."

He enjoys talking with Kate. He talks with her differently. He knows sometimes he can lead her, and other times a simple word or two will open her eyes to new possibilities.

"So why would you be ready to leave, Kate?"

She doesn't respond. She is quiet on the other end. He will give her a few ticks. He suspects where the conversation is going, although he admits to himself that he is very surprised. He had assumed after all they had gone through to get together – finally – that the detective and the writer would have realized the sheer wonder of their fortune, and fought hard for what they had struggled so long to achieve. It's clear they didn't fight nearly hard enough.

A good twenty seconds go by, and he knows it is time to press her slightly, again.

"Kate?"

"I don't know," she tells him. She doesn't believe it, and neither does he. But she has to do this on her own.

"You admit, Kate, that there's never been a wealth of respect for the federal government, on your part."

She nods her head, as if he could see her. Then realizing her mistake, she smiles wistfully at herself, and answers.

"That is true."

"Yet when they approach with what appears to be a great opportunity, you jump at the chance."

"True again, doctor," she says after pausing for a few moments.

"And you did this because . . ."

"I don't know," she repeats, this time a bit too quickly. He tries a different approach.

"Tell me about you and Richard Castle, Kate."

She stops pacing as he brings her mind back to the man she loves. She pictures his face, a bit of dark scrub under his chin, and she smiles.

"He is in New York," she tells him, confirming his suspicions.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is he in New York, Kate?" he presses her, gently. He knows not to push too hard when it comes to Castle. Few things caused her to clam up early on in their sessions more than a discussion about Richard Castle.

"Because he lives there, doctor," she answers, a little testily.

"But you are in D.C."

"Get to the point, doctor," she says quickly. Too quickly. He's almost losing her, but he knows he needs to continue. Maybe a bit more gently.

"A number of months ago – when you and I were deciding that weekly sessions were no longer needed – you mentioned that you thought that you had finally found your . . ."

He pauses for a moment, formulating the right words. "Your one and done."

She doesn't take the bait. So he casts it out again.

"So what happened?"

"I got an offer . . . I received an offer that I thought was a dream job," she says finally.

"Yes. And the fact that this job has turned out to be far from what you expected is not the issue anymore, Kate. Not for this segment of our discussion. Let's leave it at this. You received a dream job offer."

"Yes,"

"And you obviously took the job."

"Yes."

"And Mr. Castle stayed in New York."

"Yes."

"Mr. Castle, who is a writer with no job holding him to New York, stayed in New York."

"_Well when you put it that way,"_ she thinks to herself, fidgeting as she sits on her couch, taking the last of the water in two quick gulps.

"Were you and Mr. Castle doing well, Kate?"

"Yes, I thought we were."

"Then why did he not join you?"

"Well, he has a daughter there –" she says, but he interrupts her.

"In college now, if memory serves. She would have graduated from high school last spring."

"Yes."

"So, although he loves his daughter, he does not strike me as one of those – what do they call it – helicopter parents. Would you agree?"

"More or less," she gives him.

"And he can write anywhere."

"Yes."

"And for four – no, five years – you have been his inspiration."

Kate is quiet as the doctor meticulously builds his case, and experience tells her that this case will be indestructible, irrefutable. He takes her silence as agreement, and continues.

"So why are you no longer his inspiration, Kate? Why did he not join you?"

Again her silence is telling.

"Did you ask him?"

"Did I ask him what?" she asks, and he recognizes her typical stalling tactic. She is asking a question, simply to gather her thoughts. He allows it. This isn't a contest after all.

"Did you ask him to join you?"

Kate Beckett has an excellent memory. And often, certain conversations stay with her, word for word. This is one of those times. Just a few sentences, but they burned themselves into her memory – causing a response. She remembers his words very clearly. She sees them painted in front of her eyes.

"_You get this job, you move to D.C. I'll never see you. That's pretty much the end of our relationship isn't it?"_

"Early on, when I mentioned to Castle that I had interviewed with the agency, he made the statement that if I got the job and moved to D.C., we'd never see each other, and that would be pretty much it between us," she tells him, recounting the conversation with Castle.

"You didn't answer my question, Kate. Did you ask him to join you?"

"I just told you, he said –"

"Kate," he pushes again, now more firmly. "I can't see you. You aren't here with me. This is not the most ideal way for you and I to re-engage. So, please – help me out here, Kate. Answer my question."

She closes her eyes, as if only now realizing the most obvious thing in the world.

"Did you ask him to-"

"No," she says softly.

He gives her a few seconds to recover. He knows she will need to in order to continue this. It's going to be difficult for her.

"He told you that if you moved, the two of you wouldn't see each other. That was a golden opportunity for you to ask him to come with you. Whether he said yes, or whether he said no, at least he would know."

"Know what, doctor?" she asks, still talking softly. He almost strains to hear her through his desk phone speaker.

"Know that you cared. Know that you wanted him there with you. Know that he was important to you, that your relationship was important to you."

"He should have known that already," she says, somewhat bitterly.

"How would he know?"

"How could he _not_ know, doctor!" she almost spits, her frustration coming back to the forefront.

He reviews his notes that he is taking. He will verify his suspicions later when he listens to the recording of the conversation, and idly wonders if it would be of any value for Kate Beckett to be able to listen to the recording.

"Kate, let's go back a minute or so. You mentioned that after you told Castle you interviewed in D.C., he made the comment that the two of you would never see each other again. Is that accurate?"

"Yes, we've just gone through –"

"Bear with me, Kate," he tells her. "A minute ago, I got the distinct impression that when you told him this, this was the first time he found out about your job possibility."

She is quiet now. She knows this seemed to be the crux of Castle's issue with her, and for the life of her, she just doesn't see it.

"Is this true, Kate?"

"Yes," she responds.

"So the man you are living with, the man you say you love, the man you told me was your 'one and done' – you tell this man that you are thinking of leaving to another town, _after_ you have already interviewed."

Her silence gives him – again – the answer he needs. She cannot see it, obviously, but the good doctor's face drops, in sadness. From what he knows of the writer, she has made an epic error, and in typical fashion, is unaware of her injury to him. When Kate and the writer finally came together, the doctor had convinced Kate that a conversation or two with Richard Castle would help him fill in the blanks. And as Castle was not his patient, the writer agreed to allow the doctor to use his own discretion in what to do with what Castle shared with him. Both men agreed that it might be useful down the road. And today, they are certainly down the road.

"Kate. Did you ever consider telling him about the opportunity before you interviewed, so that he might have felt a part of the process? So that he might have felt important to you?"

"No, not really," she confesses, and now for the first time, it truly does feel like a confession.

"Why not?"

"I thought . . . I thought . . ."

There are tears in her eyes, as she now steps back and looks at the finished picture of her project, shaking her head.

"You thought what, Kate."

"Oh God, Doctor Burke."

"We have been through painful, horrible times already, Kate. And we have come out the other side stronger, better," he tells her. He pauses for another few seconds. Then pushes again.

"What did you think?"

"I thought it wasn't really his business." She feels the silence immediately, and quickly adds, "at least not yet. Not until I worked it out in my mind."

"He didn't deserve to be a part of this?"

"It was _my_ job, doctor. It was _my_ life."

"A life that _he_ was a part of, Kate," he tells her softly. "A life that he might have wanted to become a permanent part of someday," he says.

"How do you know this? How do I know this? For all I know, he could have decided to leave at any time? There was no commitment. He put no ring on my finger," she says a bit more harshly than she intended, and she is surprised by this revelation.

Her mind is taken back to the swing sets, and the ring that he had planned to give her. She notices her hands shaking now. She gazes down at the empty finger.

"What put these doubts in your head, Kate?" he asks her. "Rather, _who_ put them there? What happened that changed, that made you doubt his intentions?"

"What intentions?" she says, almost derisively. "He's been married twice before. Both times failed. Maybe he didn't want to try it a third time. And as Meredith said, there is so much none of us know about Castle, so much that he keeps-"

"Meredith? Meredith as in Castle's ex-wife?" he asks her, with a couple of tiny alarms shooting off in the back of his mind.

"Yes, Meredith his actress ex-wife," she states.

"Kate," he begins, and then stops himself, searching for the right words, and trying to keep a sad amusement out of his tone.

"Kate, are you telling me that you gave credence to words from a man's _ex-wife_ that would cause you to doubt the man? She is his ex for a reason, Kate, wouldn't you agree?"

'Yes, and Meredith had mentioned-"

"Kate," he interrupts again, and quickly apologies. "Kate, I'm sorry for interrupting, but we have limited time, and you are there and I am here, and we really need to push through this right now. Kate, are you aware of why Mr. Castle and his first wife divorced?"

She recalls asking Meredith the very question. She had asked her why things didn't work out for them. And Meredith's response had been what started the doubts.

"I'm guessing you are about to tell me, Dr. Burke," she says, with no idea the size of the mountain he is about to drop on her.

"I am going to tell you this, and then I am going to strongly suggest that you have a new conversation with Mr. Castle, a new conversation with a different set of eyes, Kate.

"What is it, doctor? What are you not telling me?"

"He found her in bed with another man, Kate. It was infidelity."

Thankfully, the water bottle in her hand is empty as it slides from her fingers, bouncing on the floor below. For a few seconds, Kate Beckett feels her head swoon, and she blinks to get her focus back. Surely she has heard him incorrectly.

"Excuse me?" is all she can muster.

"He walked in on her in bed with her director. She moved to California, and then asked for a divorce. Mr. Castle took custody of their daughter."

"Excuse me?" she says again, as so many questions, so many missing pieces, so many doubts now become crystal clear.

"There are always going to be things that we don't know about our loved ones, Kate, and the important stuff comes out – believe me. But if you think that secrets were what ended Mr. Castle's first marriage, then you have been dreadfully misinformed, Kate. I would surmise that while you felt Mr. Castle might not have been 'all in' so to speak, I suspect that he had similar thoughts about you. After what he went through at the end of his marriage, I would daresay that trust and transparency are at the top of his priorities in finding his particular 'one-and-done', as you would say. And if you had allowed his ex-wife to put doubts in your mind, I am almost certain that those doubts caused some type of change in you, in how you treated him, in how you treated your relationship. Change that he saw. Change that may have caused him to slow things down in his mind. "

Her nails are biting into her palms again – as frustration and anger have again taken over. Her mind rewinds to her conversations with Meredith, where the woman had so sweetly and innocently offered her congratulations, and girl-to-girl advice. Advice based upon her own self-preserving lies. Advice that Kate had allowed to creep in and take root in her forest.

"Can you see how your words might have –"

"_Might_ have?" Kate literally spits back at the doctor. "_Might_ have!? I all but pushed him away," she states, now revisiting so many scenes again with a different lens. Castle's realization that Eric Vaughn was alive because he was kissing Kate when a bullet crashed through immediately comes to mind. How else would a man who has already been cheated on once react to something like that, innocent or not, planned or not, accidental or not, wanted or not.

The only question left in her mind now is whether or not it is too late for them? Whether she has waited too long to put the pieces together. She can admit that she'd had enough doubts to be ready to drop into self-preservation mode if necessary, and that in itself had started pulling one foot toward the door – and there is no way that happens without the other party recognizing something has changed.

She glances at her watch, wondering how much time she should give the writer before calling again, this time with a fresh perspective.

Dr. Burke recognizes her silence for what it is. He knows she is planning things out in her mind, probably formulating her next phone call with the writer, planning to apologize profusely until the man accepts. He knows he needs to give her a different viewpoint.

"You're thinking of calling him," is all he says.

"Yes, I am," she admits.

"And what will you say?"

"I don't know yet, but it will probably start with a bit of groveling," she tells him, still trying to pull together her plan of action.

"That might not be the best approach, Kate," he tells her.

"And why not, doctor?" she asks, genuinely surprised at his line of thinking. "I would have thought you would appreciate me being direct, me being –"

"Kate are you sitting down?" he asks her.

"No – do I need to?"

"You might want to, Kate, because I want you to follow me down the road for a moment," he tells her, and waits a few seconds for her to sit at the other end. "Are you with me, Kate?"

"Yes," she replies, dropping lazily back into her sofa.

"What has transpired between you and Richard Castle is not something that – I believe – a simple apology will fix," he tells her, and he can once again almost feel her confusion through the phone.

"Here is what I mean, Kate," he continues. "An apology tells him you are sorry for what you might have said, or might have done. It doesn't say you are sorry for how you _feel_, for what drove you to say or do certain things. Believe me, I am confident Mr. Castle is far less concerned with words you used, or things you did than he is how you ultimately _feel about him_, and about the two of you."

"I don't under-"

"Again, let me paint a picture for you, Kate – and I warn you it is not a pretty one. " He pauses to take a sip from his Diet Coke, instead deciding to down the remainder before continuing. "Excuse me, " he apologies, as he wipes his mouth.

"The problem I suspect Mr. Castle has had with you for a long time is that he is not first in your life. He never has been. He's a twice married man, who is in love with a woman, and once again, he is far down the list on her list of priorities."

"That's not fair, Doctor," she interrupts, but hears him immediately push back.

"No, you are right, Kate. That isn't fair. At least not in his mind-"

"That's not what I meant-"

"I know that's not what you meant," he tells her. "But we are not going to look at things from your point of view right now. We are going to consider – just consider – how things have looked from Mr. Castle's perspective. And in doing so, I think you will begin to understand how a simple "Hey Castle, I'm sorry" is not likely going to be enough to get this ship afloat again."

He waits a few seconds, before hearing her step back.

"Okay, Doctor, go on," she tells him.

"Here is his perspective – and I know this from my conversations with him, Kate. Realize this," he says, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

"Mr. Castle followed you, shadowed you, longed for you, for years. And during those years, there were so many things that were more important to you than him. Your mother's case, your job at NYPD, a detective there one year, a surgeon in the city another year. All the while, his feelings for you continued to grow, and grow while he was never elevated up the ladder in your life. There were always multiple things ahead of him. Now Kate, I am not saying there is anything wrong with this. Understand me, I am _not_ saying you were wrong to put these things ahead of Castle. You weren't really in a relationship at the time, and it is always, always your prerogative to decide what – or who – is most important in your life. I am just saying this was Mr. Castle's viewpoint."

She hears the silence, and it takes a few seconds for her to realize that his silence is his way of waiting for her acceptance, for her understanding of his point.

"I'm listening," she gives him.

He smiles, knowing she is fighting this, knowing this is likely too much, too soon, but he senses that they are just about out of time. A push, a shove is greatly needed – albeit not wanted.

"Then something happens. You find yourself hanging off a building, your life flashing in front of your eyes. You have a revelation of sorts, and decide that after all is said and done, it turns out that Mr. Castle _is_ all you want – and _you tell him this_, Kate. You tell him that all you want is him. You tell him, Kate, that finally, finally _– he is number one_ with you. All other things have become secondary. This is his viewpoint. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she says, now biting her lower lip, her head lying back on the sofa headrest.

"So, a year goes by. A year after you tell him that he is it, he is your number one, he is all you want. And yet, a year later, he finds himself back in familiar territory – back years ago again. Your job has surpassed him in importance again. Your career has overtaken him, to the point that you are now making career decisions that absolutely impact your relationship with him, yet you do not pull him into this decision-making process. You're job in New York is no longer enough, and you haven't told him this. You are ready to find something new, and you haven't told him this. You have been recruited, and you haven't told him this. You go on an interview and you haven't told him this. He finds out – you don't tell him – he finds this out on his own. All of this serves to reinforce to him that "all I want is you" is no longer valid, that is no longer the reality. The reality is that he has been pushed down on your list once again."

She begins to speak but he interrupts again. It is difficult for him to do, because in reality, he should be letting her talk, he should be allowing her to work things through. But she is there, he is here, and time is of the essence.

"So, what exactly are you apologizing to him for, Kate? When you say you are sorry, what are you sorry for? That he found out about your job? That you didn't tell him in time? That you didn't include him in the process? Or are you sorry, Kate, that he is no longer at the top of your list of priorities anymore? And how do you explain to him that over the course of a year, a year of being together, a year of growing together – he no longer holds that top spot anymore?"

Her silence gives her – and him – her answer. She doesn't know. She has no idea. She just knows she doesn't like the new status quo.

"So you see, Kate – a simple 'I am sorry' isn't enough today. There is so much more to discuss. There are answers that, I suspect, you do not yet have. And believe me, Mr. Castle is going to need those answers, far more than he needs an apology."

"You're right, Doctor," she says finally, and her voice is so soft, so distant – but at least he knows she gets in now, she understands. She might not agree, she might disagree with everything in her – but at least she now has seen a different viewpoint. _His_ viewpoint.

"Don't you want to be number one in someone's life, Kate?"

Again, her silence roars loudly for both of them – and he allows it for a few more seconds, allowing it so settle in, to take roots with her.

"And so does he, Kate. So does he. He thought he was that with you. Now he knows he isn't."

"_Time to wrap this up,"_ he thinks to himself.

"So, what kind of man is Richard Castle, Kate?" he asks. "Is he a pull the band-aid off the wound slowly kind-of-guy? Or is he a rip the thing off in one swoop?"

She actually laughs, and it feels good to have a good, honest laugh. It's been too long to laugh like this, and it feels good, even though her eyes mist with tears and she isn't really sure why she is laughing.

"Castle is a big baby," she says, between chuckles, and Dr. Burke joins her in laughter.

"Then coming in, guns blazing, with an elaborate apology might sound logical, and right and honest to you – but perhaps it's not the best approach for him, just yet. From what you say, and what I know, he may need time."

"You're probably right," she says, sobering quickly. "But I can't see how leaving him alone and letting him grow even farther away will help."

"I am not saying leave him alone, Kate. I am saying go slow. Sometimes we let someone simmer and simmer and simmer for so long – well, by the time we come clean to make amends, that person isn't in the frame of mind for making amends. That's where you are now. I'm just saying you may have to ease him into this."

Her thoughts go back to his loft, just over a year ago. Cold, wet and at the end of her rope, she had knocked on his door. The look he had given her then was the same cold shoulder he is giving her now.

"_What do you want, Beckett?"_ was all he had given her as a greeting. She was ready to do whatever was needed – he was ready to shut the door in her face.

"_You. I just want you,"_ she had told him, launching herself into him. And he had stiffened, holding her at bay. And now . . . and now she replays that conversation knowing that somehow, someway, that no longer is true. And he knows it. And she cannot, for the life of her, figure out where things fell apart. She can't blame all of this on Meredith, can she?

"Perhaps Dr. Burke is right," she thinks to herself. Calling him up and falling on the sword might not work. In fact, calling him _at all_ might not be the best approach. Some things are better handled in person, face-to-face.

She thanks the doctor, exchanging final pleasantries, and agreeing to check in with him in the next few days. She sets an appointment for 11:30 a.m. on Friday morning, just a couple of days away.

"I will wait for your call," he tells her as they hang up.

"_It won't be a phone call, Doctor,"_ she thinks to herself. _"I'll be there in person. There is someone else I need to talk to before we meet again."_

She hangs up, and starts checking on flights on her mobile phone, searching for availability for tomorrow evening.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Wonder: Chapter 10**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Same Day – Still at Castle's New Private Investigator's Office**_

"You are the primary suspect?" Richard Castle asks her.

"Yes," Serena Kaye tells him, as she takes a seat in the oversized leather chair that sits in front of his large desk. Castle, for his part, continues sitting on the edge of the desk, forcing himself not to gaze at the long legs, now exposed, as the insurance investigator crosses her legs, settling back in the chair. The red dress now hangs roughly five or so inches above her knees. She smiles, as she is well aware of the effect she is having, and she is just as impressed that Castle is working – quite successfully – at ignoring her little game.

She enjoyed playing with him during their previous case – well over a year and a half ago – and truth be told, she has been looking forward to continuing their harmless games . . . a little fun to go along with the very serious work she knows it is going to take to clear her name.

"So, tell me about your case, and how you think I might be able to help, Serena," he says, quickly back to business.

"Oh, Richard, you're no fun today," she comments, with a bit of a pout. He cannot help the laughter that follows, and she joins in.

"Sorry. It's been an interesting couple of months," he smiles, noting this to be a dramatic understatement.

"Oh really?" she says. She had heard that Castle and Detective Beckett had finally ceased their silly arms-length dance and had become an item. The fact that Castle had just recently acquired his private investigator license seemed kind of a natural evolution, in her mind. She had noted his instincts for solving problems during that prior case. His thinking was truly unique. It hasn't occurred to her that this evolution of his has coincided with a split between the two.

"_Tell_ me about it," she says, her smile sparkling and her interest truly genuine. She really likes this man – not in a 'gosh I have to have him kind of way', but more in a 'this is a very interesting man' manner.

"Nothing much to say," he states with little emotion, trying desperately to move the conversation away from his personal life and on to her case. It's his fault, he knows, for bringing it up. It doesn't work.

"We've gone from 'an interesting couple of months' to 'nothing much to say' in the span of less than twenty seconds, Mr. Castle," she says, playfully. "You can't expect me to just let that drop."

"I can hope," he tells her, still sitting, and running a hand through his hair, a slight smile appearing – purely as a defensive move. He wants no part of this conversation and is chiding himself for encouraging it with his off-hand remark. He also knows enough about Serena from their brief interaction before that she likely isn't going to let this go. Further, he knows that part of him being able to move on requires him to also being able to talk about things. So he talks.

"You remember Detective Beckett," he says, and before she can respond, corrects himself. "Of course you do, stupid question," and both find themselves chuckling.

"She and I started dating about a year ago, and we got pretty close. She left a couple of months ago, to take a job in D.C. with the Feds."

"And?" Serena asks, eyebrows raised, clearly surprised.

"And . . . that's it," he says, as if that explains everything.

Serena stares up at him from her seated position, her eyes taking in his posture, his expressions, everything about him. Clearly, there is much more to the story. But Serena Kaye is no stranger to heartache and troubled splits, and more than anything else, she sees the pain that he tries to hide, and mercifully gives him the out he needs.

"You know what, Richard, I'm going to give you a pass," she says, and sees the visible relief on Castle's face, before continuing, "for now."

Castle nods, with a small smile. "Thank you, I will take that pass," and both smile. "Now, you didn't come here to talk about my personal life . . ."

"No, I didn't," she says, uncrossing her legs and standing. She stares at Castle for a few seconds before moving away, back toward the large Lassen picture hanging on the wall.

"The Rock of God, a recently discovered painting widely accepted to be one of the lost pieces of Leonardo DaVinci, was donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art last week," she begins, still admiring the Lassen piece. "The piece was supposed to go on display tomorrow, but was stolen two days ago. The police were obviously called in to investigate, and the insurance company assigned me to the case as well. Since the piece was not yet on display, and since the public had not been made aware of the donation and subsequent promotions, the police suspect this to be an inside job."

She pauses, placing her hand on the protective glass, running it along one of the bridges in the painting. "This truly is magnificent," she says idly, almost to herself. Suddenly, she turns and faces Castle, who remains seated on the corner of his desk.

"Long story short, the investigation turned up evidence that the thief used methodology very familiar to the specialists who were brought in to investigate. Methods similar to what are suspected to be methods that I have used in the past during my so-called accused years 'retrieving' art," she tells him. "Well, one thing led to another, and before I know it, I am off the case, and now somewhat the suspect, according to the police. I'm not under arrest, but have been declared a person of interest and told not to leave the city."

"So-called?" he comments, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, smirking.

"_That's_ what you took out of all of this?" she asks, being seeing his smirk turn into a bonafide smile, and relaxing.

Richard Castle nods – still smiling – but internally he is replaying aspects of their previous case together. He knows she definitely has the skills, the tools, and the know-how to pull off pretty much any heist she wants on the art front. He also suspects, from what he remembers, that she could easily deflect the attention elsewhere, if she so chose. Yet evidently, the attention for this crime _is_ firmly on her shoulders. Still, he needs to be thorough, and knows the questions must be asked.

"I have to ask the question, Serena."

"I would be disappointed, and realize I have come to the wrong place if you didn't, Richard."

He smiles at her understanding, noting it to be a nice change of pace from what he is accustomed to. Dismissing such thoughts, he continues.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

He pauses, with a half-smile, waiting for her explanation. When none comes, he is a bit confused, pressing for more information.

"No? That's it?"

"Yes, that's it. I don't know how to explain the word 'no'."

He is somewhat confused, until he thinks back to his very first case with one Katherine Beckett. There had been a copycat murderer, who was copying scenes from his previous books. In that case, the real murderer was deflecting the attention to someone else. He smiles at fate's irony, wondering if it will repeat itself with his first real case, on his own.

"_On my own,"_ he smiles to himself. Unfortunately, she catches this, too.

"What is it?" she asks him.

"Nothing. Nothing, Serena. Just thinking about how things come full circle, sometimes," he explains.

That first case with Beckett comes to his mind now, however, because of what Serena has said, and the first lesson Kate Beckett had taught him. Serena simply answered his question with a simple 'no', and felt no need to explain further. He recalls Kate's words on that first case – innocent people don't have elaborate alibis already prepared. They don't need them.

The fact that Serena does not come to him with a carefully-prepared, believable alibi, the idea that she comes to him only with a simple 'no' answers his question. She didn't do it - which is great news, because he doesn't want to have to turn this woman in.

"So if you didn't take it, who do you suspect _did_?" he asks her, now moving on to the next logical question in his mind. She is – after all – an investigator. If she has already turned up any information, any clues, then it would be good to be in the know on those little matters.

"I honestly have no clue," she replies, and immediately notes the skepticism on his face. "It's the truth, Rick. If I had all the answers, I wouldn't be here sitting in your office."

"I'm not asking if you have _all _the answers, Serena. I'm wondering why you don't at least have _some_ of them," he responds – and notes the acknowledgement in her eyes. "You're an investigator, and from what I remember of the last time we worked together – more or less – you were a damn good one. You saw a number of things we didn't catch. So yeah, I am surprised you don't have _anything_ at all to share with me."

She stands in front of his painting on the wall, turning her back on him to continue admiring the work.

"Serena – let me tell you something," he tells her, and his forceful tone draws her head back toward him. She finds herself staring into surprisingly piercing eyes.

"I've been married twice, and divorced twice. Both times my wife has walked out." Serena Kaye's eyes widen every so subtly, as she tries – unsuccessfully – to submerge her surprised expression. Noting that he has her attention, Castle continues.

"I have had a wife cheat on me, and my most recent relationship ended when the woman I thought loved me decided to opt for a job out-of-town, without so much as saying 'boo' to me about it. And she never even gave the slightest inclination – as she moved away – that she wanted me to join her," he says, his eyes growing smaller, the anger just beneath the surface.

"So all I ask – no, scratch that, I _insist_ that whatever working relationship you and I formulate here be based on honesty, and trust," he says softly. "I have had my fill of lies, dishonesty and mistruths to last the rest of my life. I won't walk into anything else again – be it a relationship, a partnership, a case – under false or suspicious pretenses. Trust is kind of important to me, right now. So I will ask you again – what are you not telling me?"

Serena takes a step backwards, defensively from the force of Castle's words, but quickly recovers and begins to walk towards him. Her thoughts return to her decision – just yesterday – to engage Richard Castle in her dilemma. She knows that he – more than anyone else – can probably help her, simply because he is the one person she believes will trust her enough. So it is important that he do just that – trust her.

"Richard," she begins, speaking softly but firmly. "I don't know what you want – or expect – me to tell you. And I am not going to lie to you and tell you that you already know everything about me. You probably will _never_ know _every_thing about me. But there are some things about this case that I haven't figured out yet. And until I do, allow me to have a few . . . secrets."

She holds her hands out, palms up, in acquiescence – hoping it will be enough. She needs him to find out what really happened, to prove her innocence.

"Get out," he says quietly, with no emotion. No malice, no disappointment. It's disarming to her, not what she expected, and she is once again surprised by this man.

"Richard, wait –"

"No. I am not waiting. I am not waiting for yet another person to decide _when_ they will grace me with the truth. I am not waiting for another person to decide _when_ they will play with me on a level playing field. I am tired of secrets. I've held secrets myself, and it eats at you. I don't need _them_, and I don't need _this_."

He walks to the door and opens it, stepping out of the doorway. He looks back at Serena, and holds her gaze, his eyes giving away none of the inner turmoil eating at him at this moment. Serena watches him, considering her options. She has told him the truth. There are things she hasn't figured out yet. And he isn't the only one with trust issues stemming from past relationships. As much as she wants to, she cannot bring herself to open all of her theories up to him just yet. Not until she is sure – or at least much surer about things than she is now.

Sadly, she drops something on his desk, and she walks toward the door, reaching him in a few steps. She stops and slowly places her hand on his cheek. She feels him ever so slightly recoil, and she sighs.

"_Yeah,"_ she thinks to herself. _"He's hurting, he's damaged. Like me."_

"I'm sorry, Mr. Castle," she says, more formally now. "I had hoped . . ."

She lets the thought drift as she removes her hand, and walks out the door. She hears the door click, closing behind her as she walks toward the elevator.

Inside Castle's office, the writer-turned-private investigator angrily drops his large frame into the chair behind his desk. He silently fumes, angry at himself and at the woman who has just left his office. He knows that secrets are a part of everyone's lives. Hell, he has his own secrets that even his daughter and mother don't know about, and he is closer to no one else on earth. Who is he judge her? Who is he to hold her to a higher expectation simply because of Kate.

And Meredith. And Gina.

His head falls back into the large upper portion of his chair, as his eyes take in the ceiling above, feeling almost certain that he has made a mistake sending the insurance investigator away.

For a few minutes he tries to clear his head, before finally giving in to the second thoughts he is now having. Serena has come to him in need, choosing him. And her logic for selecting him, a novice private investigator rings true. He knows her, he has trusted and defended her in the past, and he had helped her recover the missing piece – which, he knows, ended up paying her a tidy sum of money. It makes sense that she would come to him now. She has good reasons to trust him.

His first potential case, and he throws the client out.

"Nice start," he says aloud, sarcastically, sighing angrily as he grabs his keys. A walk to the deli around the corner will do him some good. Get some fresh air, a sandwich, clear his head, and try and reach out to Serena. Except he has no idea where she lives, or how to get in contact with her. Suddenly, his mind replays their conversation, and his eyes fall to the corner of his desk. Yeah, she had dropped her business card there before leaving. He thought he had seen her put something on his desk. That makes sense.

He grabs the card and glances at it quickly, noting her phone number. There is no address, not that he expected one. A woman like Serena probably does not want people just dropping in on her – and he can't blame her for that. He will grab a quick bite to eat, and then give her a call. Give him a chance to cool off, and give her a chance to hopefully be in a more forgiving mood than she likely is at this moment.

It all sounds good right now. He locks the door behind him and turns toward the elevator when he sees her.

Serena Kaye lies, deathly still, slumped against the elevator door. Castle rushes toward her, immediately feeling for a pulse, and grateful to find one. He quickly checks her face, the back of her head, feeling for the telltale sign of blunt force. Finding none, he begins to assess her hands and arms when he finds it. There is a small trickle of blood drying on her arm, which is exposed by her sleeveless dress. Looking closer, he finds the small hole indicating the puncture mark from the needle.

He glances around quickly, ensuring they are alone, and then picks her up, cradling her in both arms as he carries her back to his office. He stops at the door to his office, and fumbles inside his pants pocket for the keys, struggling not to drop the drugged and unconscious woman. Finally finding the keys, he unlocks the door, and steps back inside, kicking the door closed behind them as he walks to the sofa and gently lays Serena down.

He quickly considers his options. She could have gone to the police with her concerns, instead of him, but there is a reason she did not. He suspects that Serena would prefer to keep any and all authorities out of this. That much he suspects.

But whatever is now coursing through her veins, whatever it is that has knocked her out – he has no idea what it is. It could be something simple, or something quite dangerous. That much he knows.

He decides that what he knows outweighs what he suspects, and picks up his cell phone, and dials 911.

"Forgive me, Serena," he says softly, aloud. "Your safety is most important right now."


	11. Chapter 11

**The Wonder: Chapter 11**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Still the Same Day – 11:05 a.m. – Back at the coffee shop, a mile from Federal HQ in D.C.**_

The chicken pasta plate that sits in front of her is almost wiped clean. Kate Beckett sits, satisfied, staring at the pedestrians that slowly walk past the now filling-up coffee shop. The lunch crowd is making their way out of the Federal buildings in the area and out to the local eating establishments.

It's been almost fifteen minutes since Kate has hung up with Dr. Burke. It had been a good – no, it had been a _great_ conversation with the doctor, and – as always – he has left her with much to think about. He rarely takes the initiative to tell her anything. Instead, he allows her to figure things out. This conversation had been a departure from that method, as he had evidently decided that she needed a push. She is grateful for his decision.

She has been online with her mobile phone since they had finished talking, looking for flights to New York. She finds a flight to LaGuardia for tomorrow morning, and is ready to click to buy when she stops, noticing the happy couple that passes by, holding hands, smiling. It wasn't long ago that she had that happiness. She stares at her mobile screen, the green 'BUY' button beckoning her to push it and complete the transaction

"_This is exactly how I always screw things up,"_ she thinks to herself, _"jumping in, all fire-aim-ready instead of ready-aim-fire."_

She wipes a strand of hair from her face that blows in the July summer breeze, and places her cell phone down on the table next to her plate of diminishing pasta.

"_Something happens, and I react without thinking things through,"_ she says, now talking out loud to herself. _"It's why I am here - all alone - in a strange city, away from my friends. Away from the man I love."_

She smiles to herself, feeling as if a cloud has lifted. When she had spoken to her dad, months ago, before she took this job, she had told him that she was starting to get restless. He had asked her why. He had wondered aloud to her, why she would be 'restless' just weeks after a man she professes to love has refused to leave her while a bomb was counting down. He had warned her that she was falling back into her pattern.

"_C'mon, Katie, surely you can see this. Things start getting too good, things start getting too 'normal', and you get restless," _he had told her. _"You start looking for the exit. Yes, this may be a great job they are offering. But do you give up what is turning out to be a great life for a great job?"_

She had – as always – gone into defensive mode, protecting herself, protecting her reality. She had pushed back, and everything had sounded so darn logical as the words were coming out of her mouth.

"_Dad, believe me, this is a dream job. The way this has come out of the blue, it's almost too good to be true."_

She had hated his response, then, and hates it now even more, only because it has proven to be true.

"_Well, you know what they say, Katie. If something looks too good to be true, it probably is."_

The job has come to her under false pretenses. It was a way to get her out of New York, to get her away from something important her sworn enemy was planning. And she had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

Now she has the opportunity to go back, and at least start trying to repair the damage she has done to the one happy, fulfilling relationship that has always avoided her. But does just going there and showing up solve anything? What's she going to say? What's she going to do? What does she really want? And if it is Richard Castle that she really wants, then why in the hell did she leave in the first place?

He had tried to ask her these questions – but it was too late. Her mind had already been made up before he found out. And once he found out, it was too sudden, it was too unexpected. She doesn't do well with sudden and unexpected.

"If I go down there now, what am I going to do?" she asks herself. _"Barge in and fall on my sword? I know Castle, and his reaction to this mess so far has been completely opposite from what I would have expected – so I can't predict how he will react. I need a plan."_

She turns to flag down her waiter. The coffee shop is starting to fill up, and with it comes the expected noise of the lunch crowd, eager to flex after a morning sitting behind desks. A walk – and a more quiet setting – will do her good.

"_I've already made a mess of things, so my next step has to start turning this around,"_ she thinks to herself. She is feeling better. She marvels for a moment the sad irony that although she finds it impossible to see the forest for the trees when she is in the midst of the forest, everything is crystal clear once she has left the forest behind.

"_One of these days, I'm going to have to have this clear, clean vision in the midst of the fire,"_ she promises herself.

Three minutes later she is stepping out through the gate from the outdoor eating area, and hailing a passing cab. She slides in quickly, and gives the instructions to the cabbie.

"To the National Mall, please."

She enjoys walking the Mall, with the green park separating her favorite monuments. She will go to the Lincoln Memorial today. She never grows tired of reading the inscription there, in the quiet shaded interior. She sits back, relaxing, and starts to close her eyes as they pass multiple streets, approaching the stop light many blocks away from the coffee shop, when her eyes snap back open. The cab is stopped, they are at the intersection, and the light is red. But that isn't what catches her attention.

They are stopped within yards of the front glass doors of building where she works. The cab in front of her has stopped, and its passenger is disembarking.

"Don't move," she tells her cabbie. "Even if the light changes."

In front of her, one Eric Vaughn is walking away from his cab and heading toward the doors to her building. Sure enough, he goes inside.

She opens the car door, ready to jump out to run after the billionaire philanthropist. Her mind is racing. What is he doing here? And in her building?

After her conversation this morning with Dr. Burke, and the realizations that have come alive because of that conversation, her radar is on high alert. She stops herself, closing the door. Running in – without a plan – is exactly the type of impromptu error she knows she makes time and time again. She has just reminded herself of this back at the coffee shop, yet here she was again ready to jump into the fray without thinking.

She mentally gives herself a pat on the back as she gives the cabbie instructions.

"Sorry – I thought I saw someone I know," she tells him. "Let's go."

"_Eric Vaughn?"_ she whispers to herself. _"Am I supposed to believe this is purely chance – purely coincidental?" _she thinks to herself, now fully on-guard, questioning everything around her. She knows that this man – and her interaction with this man – had turned out to be a lightning rod for her and Richard Castle. Castle had expressed reservations about the man, and about the time she was spending with the philanthropist just a few months earlier, during a case. And he had kissed her. And she had let him. Kissed back, in fact.

Today, she would swear to you she has no idea why she allowed it. But seeing him is a reminder to herself that she needs to do better, be smarter, with spontaneous situations.

"_But what the hell is he doing here?"_ she wonders again, and then her heart flutters, and her hands quickly ball up into twin fists. Her mind is taken back to a long-ago conversation with Mike Royce. A conversation that occurred years ago, when she was still a police infant, trying to find clues to her mother's murder, and Royce was her first training officer.

"Question every coincidence," the future bounty hunter had told her back then. "Do that and you will find – more often than not – that what appears to be a coincidence is simply part of a plan you are not meant to see," he had told her. It sounded like a pretty pessimistic outlook on life back then to the rookie cop. Time, however, has proven those words to be quite prophetic.

As she rides toward the monuments, his words are sounding off alarms in her head. His words – she will think back months from now – are what place her back on her road to redemption. Whether the road leads back home or not will be determined someday. But for now, she feels stronger with every passing block in the cab, as she realizes that the last 24 hours have pulled the curtain back – giving her a better view, new insight, into what is happening with her life.

"_Eric is here, and I'm pretty certain I wasn't supposed to see that,"_ she tells herself. _"I got back from North Dakota a day earlier than expected, and the only person who knew this is Deputy Director Freedman."_

She frowns, starting to tick off in her mind, the potential implications of this.

"_Don't do this, Kate,"_ she warns herself. _Don't jump to conclusions."_

Nevertheless, she cannot help but consider the possibilities. Vaughn is here, and – according to the Mike Royce view of the world – his departure from that cab was something she wasn't supposed to see. Yet see it she did. So what does she do with this information that – had it occurred ten mere seconds earlier – would have been shielded from her?

Vaughn's time is valuable, and he doesn't mess around with small fry. He is meticulous with his time and his meetings. So she knows he isn't walking into her building for some low-level discussion. He's meeting someone big. And there are only so many 'big fish' in her building.

That means – again, according to the Mike Royce view of the world – there is a meeting going on that she is not supposed to be privy to. Yet, here she sits in this cab, now fully aware of the fact that he is there meeting someone.

Nothing – as it turns out – has proven to be what it appears to be, on face value, over the past couple of months. Not the reason she was recruited, not the relationship she thought she had with her boss, and not the assignments she has been given. If form holds – and the universe has just pulled back the veil and given her a gracious glimpse – then Eric Vaughn's presence here is not what it appears either. But there is a way she can find out. There is a way she can determine how on the level the man really is.

_I don't believe in coincidences,"_ she tells herself. _"But he's a man who gives money away. His mindset is far more positive than mine."_

She pulls his contact information up on her cell phone, thankful that she never deleted it after their case. After all, there are some people you never want to delete from your rolodex. She idly wonders if Richard Castle – even after the distrustful interaction with Vaughn – would delete the contact information of a man Castle himself admitted to be on his bucket list, his Last Supper.

"_He will see this as a coincidence,"_ she tells herself, as she places her finger on the SEND button. She stops herself at the last moment.

"_Don't assume anything, Kate,"_ she reminds herself. _"Don't give away any advantage – and right now, me knowing he is here is my advantage," _she tells herself.

She leans her head back against the seat top, closing her eyes, willing her mind to clear. There are simply far too many thoughts racing there now, and she needs a caution flag to slow things down. For the next minute or so, she sits there, eyes closed. The ticking of the cab fare clock is the only consistent sound that makes it way past the mental wall she has invoked, when suddenly it hits her.

"I hate to do this to you," she says to the cabbie suddenly, her eyes opening. "But I need you to turn around and take me back – right now, please," she tells him.

The cab driver gives her a look, but then realizes that a fare is a fare. "It's your money, lady," he tells her gruffly as he makes a quick right turn, and then heads down the street before making a second right turn, headed back to Kate's Federal office.

Ten minutes later, with a bit of extra traffic, she finds herself exiting the cab a block away from her building. Walking this final block allows her to finalize the words necessary to execute her impromptu plan.

"_At least it is a plan this time,"_ she tells herself, getting more nervous with each step she takes back toward the Federal building. She realizes now, more than ever, that for the past couple of months, she has been a pawn being moved around on an elaborate chess board. A plane trip here, a train ride there. All a part of a "plan she was not supposed to see."

"_Thank you, Mike,"_ she thinks to herself as she walks through the glass doors, and heads straight to the security desk, and Jeff Washington, the security guard. Fortunately, one of the first things Kate did in her new capacity was to befriend the young man who guards the elevators, sitting at the computer terminal behind the security gate.

"Hi Jeff," she offers in greeting as she walks up to the small gate area, taking out her security card to be scanned.

"Hello Agent Beckett," the guard returns her greeting. "How are you on this glorious morning?"

This is one of the reasons she likes the young black man. No matter her mood, or anyone else's mood, it seems he can always be counted on for a smile and a cheerful greeting. She wonders if he realizes what his little gifts do for the people in this building, and the nightmares they routinely navigate through.

"I'm good, Jeff, but I could use your help," she says. She hates lying to the man, but she tells herself the ends justify the means in this case. And either way, he won't be hurt by it.

"I'm trying to surprise someone, and I need to know if she has arrived yet or not," she tells him. "Do you mind if I take a quick peek?" she asks.

"Who is it?" he asks. "I can take a quick look."

"Well . . . it's kind of something I'd like to keep quiet for now, if you get my drift," she tells him with a bit of a wink, drawing a smile from the young man.

He takes a quick glance around, in both directions, then makes up his mind.

"Well, you work here, and you _are_ a federal agent," he decides. "I don't suppose it can be any harm."

He rolls his chair to the side, allowing Kate to walk and stand next to him. She grabs the mouse, and makes a few clicks, pulling up the list of visitors and employees who have passed through the security gates. She scans names, looking for something out of the ordinary. When she was clearing her mind in the cab, she realized the 'assumption' she was making. She assumed Vaughn is here to meet with someone who works in this building. But then she remembers that the building is filled with conference rooms – _video conference rooms_ – that many people from multiple buildings in the area come to use fairly frequently. It's possible that multiple people are coming in for a meeting.

When she asked herself – mentally – why she should even consider such a longshot possibility in lieu of the more obvious choice – that he is meeting with someone who works in this building – she had smiled at the answer. Castle.

"It's a better story," he would say. She can hear him saying it even now, and she cannot suppress a sad smile as she recalls her thoughts from the cab ride back to the building. Suddenly the smile freezes on her face. Evidently she tenses up as well, because the change in her body posture is noticeable to the security guard.

"Everything okay, Agent Beckett?" he asks her, glancing at the computer screen, wondering what has frozen the agent.

Kate Beckett finally exhales a breath, as she stares at the entry, the name of the visitor to the building that arrived at 11:09 this morning.

_William Bracken, Senator, U.S. Senate_

She straightens up, regaining her composure, forcing a smile to her face for the security guard.

"Everything is good, Jeff," she says pleasantly, her racing heart threatening to give her away. "She hasn't arrived yet," she lies.

She walks toward the glass doors, needing air, needing freedom, needing to see the blue sky, needing to feel the sun. She is nervous, she needs to walk. But she also realizes that she is in charge now. Once again, there are no coincidences. Once again today, she has again seen something that was supposed to stay hidden from her. So if Eric Vaughn knows Senator William Bracken – and there is no proof yet that he does . . . but there are also no coincidences – if Vaughn does know the Senator, then everything she knows about the billionaire must be re-questioned. Including his 'chance' meeting with one Detective Kate Beckett.

"_Thank you, Mike,"_ she once again offers upward to her now deceased friend and mentor, as she walks out of the building, her mind starting to move pieces around on her own board now.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Wonder: Chapter 12**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Same Day – Back at Castle's New Private Investigator's Office**_

Serena Kaye lies on the large, overstuffed sofa that sits in Richard Castle's new office. Her legs are elevated roughly a foot above her head. Castle has placed a couple of folded up towels on the arm of the sofa at her feet, and has elevated her feet on top of the arm and the towels. A final towel covers her from waist to thigh, giving her the privacy he knows she will want when she awakens. He's loosened the black belt that previously clung to her waist, holding her red dress in place. She's breathing fine, and so he waits. He waits for the paramedics to arrive, and he waits for her to wake up.

It appears the latter is happening first.

Serena is already starting to stir, and it's only been perhaps a few minutes since Richard Castle found her slumped, unconscious in the hallway next to the elevator. Whatever cocktail she has been given, apparently it was either a low dosage or just a small amount, because her eyes are blinking drowsily, but she is coming around.

Castle sits next to her on the edge of the sofa, alternately rubbing her legs, his hands staying on top of the towel, rubbing her arms, and patting her face with the wet cloth. Still no indication outside that the paramedics are here, he is grateful to see her returning to the land of the living.

He vaguely begins to wonder why someone would drug Serena Kaye. His mind is racing now, trying to determine exactly what has been accomplished, what advantage has been gained by her temporary unconscious state. Has something been taken from her? He will ask that soon enough. He's grateful that she is alive, but he is also wondering why someone would attack her, and only render her unconscious.

It hits him, suddenly, that she has been followed. Followed here, to his private office.

"_So much for building security,"_ he thinks to himself as he stands and walks toward the window, wondering if this building even has a surveillance video. He makes a mental note to check that out, outside on his floor once the paramedics arrive. He also chides himself for not thinking of something as basic as video surveillance when he was shopping for his brick and mortar storefront.

He idly wonders about the timing of all of this. Serena leaves his office, and is out in the hallway for just a few seconds and is attacked. He finds her within minutes. Was her perpetrator lying in wait for her, outside his office, or was the attacker planning on bursting into Castle's office as well, and only her timely departure changed those plans?

He realizes he can give himself a headache just thinking about all of these possibilities when he hears her.

"Mmmmm" she slurs, groggily as she tries to shake away the cobwebs that drape across her mind, weighing her down tightly. Her sounds cause Castle to return toward the sofa where she lays. She has no idea where she is, and the first thing she notices is that her legs are elevated. That in itself tells her something is wrong, and Castle quickly sees the sudden panic and fear in her eyes, and moves to assuage her fears.

"Serena," he begins, placing the wet cloth on her forehead. "It's me – Richard Castle. You are at my office," he continues.

Panic still in her eyes, she tries to sit up quickly, but is gently yet firmly pressed back down into the soft embrace of his couch.

"No," he tells her. "You've been drugged, Serena. Don't try to move just yet. Let it wear off. I've already called 911 and the paramedics are on the way."

She gazes upward into his blue, concerned eyes. The fear that has taken her heart into a vice grip slowly begins to release its hold. Castle can see the panic in her eyes slowly fading, and he gives her a soft, yet brilliant smile.

"Wick?" she tries speaking, but it comes out slurred, and funny, her 'R' clearly spoken as a 'W', bringing a chuckle from the writer-turned-private investigator.

She gives him a soft punch in the arm as he sits next to her again, and it is only the drugs still in her system that prevent the punch from having any strength behind it – which seems to frustrate her all the more.

"Maybe we should let me do the talking for a minute," he says, still chuckling, and still placing the wet cloth on various spots of her face. He is struck – for not the first time – at how incredibly beautiful she is. Especially now, as her soft features express no emotion.

"_So not going there,"_ he promises himself. _"Last thing I need,"_ he continues thinking to himself, as he watches her, still smiling, waiting for her head to clear.

Another twenty or thirty seconds pass, with Castle simply staring at Serena's face as he continues to press the wet rag against her features, while she simply stares upward into his eyes, never breaking contact. It threatens to become just a tad uncomfortable for both when Castle sees the crystal clearness return to her eyes – and just in time.

"Good," he tells her, "you seem to be just about back with us. Why don't we try to sit you up – _slowly_ – slowly," he repeats with emphasis, as he reaches down and softly picks her legs up off of the arm of the sofa and wheels them around so that they hang off the large furniture piece. He places his left arm underneath her head, while his right arm reaches across her chest to grab her left arm. Slowly and gently, he pulls her upright into a semi-sitting position. He holds her for roughly another thirty seconds, in this position, her fingers now tightly gripping his arms through his jacket.

Her head manages to fall slightly forward against his chest, and he leans backward, slightly, allowing her to fully rest her head, still catching her bearings. A few seconds later, she tries to sit up a bit more.

"More," she mumbles, taking her face away from his chest, trying desperately to blink herself into full consciousness. It's not the first time she has found herself drugged in her life – fortunately or unfortunately – and she is quickly realizing she is okay, she is going to be fine. In a few more minutes, at least.

She gazes down now, for the first time seeing the towel that lies across her waist and upper legs. She looks quizzically at the offending item, and glances slightly upward at Castle, who simply gives a slight shoulder shrug and a sheepish grin. It dawns on her, the act of grace and chivalry that has been displayed during her unconsciousness. She makes a mental note in her groggy mind of yet another reason to trust this man, to fully open up to him.

Years of mistrust and betrayal, however, take this idle note and bludgeon it into nothingness. There is no one she can trust that fully, that completely.

Not even him. Not yet, at least.

"Thank you," she manages, as she swings her legs completely off of the sofa and onto the floor. "My shoes?"

"Your very expensive Jimmy Choos are right there," he points to the floor near the edge of the sofa arm. "Not my size," he offers with a smile, "and believe me, I tried them on."

This brings a genuine smile from her, and he finds himself relaxing, not realizing that he was still fully tensed all this time. Her smile and the sirens he hears pulling up outside and below his window, allow him to start breathing more easily.

Fifteen minutes later, Castle is in his red Ferrari, navigating through the city streets, attempting to keep pace with the ambulance that carries Serena Kaye to the hospital that is about fifteen blocks away. The lights and sirens seem to get a little more distant from him with each passing block, as taxi cabs find their way to their various destinations, blocking him from following as closely as he would like.

"_Dammit, I should have just taken a cab,"_ he thinks to himself, only now realizing that he's going to have to quickly find a place to park this beast when he gets to the hospital. Ten minutes later, he pulls up to the emergency room building entrance. He hops out and parks the car along the fire lane, having already decided that he is willing to pay a fine and towing fee. Right now, he just wants to get inside quickly and make sure that Serena Kaye is fine.

By the time the paramedics had gotten upstairs to his office, Serena was showing very little effects of the cocktail that had been administered. The paramedics, however, rightly decided to get her to the hospital once she was stabilized, as they were not sure exactly what it is that has been inside her veins.

He jogs at a slow pace up the walkway and through the doors to the emergency room, quickly identifying himself – not as the famous author Richard Castle – but instead as one Richard Rodgers, Private Investigator doing business as Richard Castle. It is all for naught, however, as he is told that he needs to wait in the waiting lobby area until a doctor comes out to speak with him. Fortunately, one of the paramedics makes her entrance at that very moment, calling for Castle to come to the patient room where they have taken Serena.

He follows the young woman through the halls and they make a quick left turn and stop at the second room.

"She's in here, Mr. Castle," the woman tells him, before adding. "Love your books," she says with a wink and then she is gone.

He nods in satisfaction, takes a quick deep breath – why, he does not know – and enters the room. The first thing he notices is Serena's red dress hanging on the doorway, while she sits atop an examining table, legs crossed at her calves, wearing your typical 'back-exposed' hospital gown. She looks gorgeous in virtually anything, he notices, and again mentally chides himself for the thought. The mental correction fails to reach his lips, however, and the words escape before he can catch them.

"Darn, I missed the unveiling," he says with a smirk.

Serena, for her part, seems fully back in the present now, as she smiles and returns the quip with one of her own.

"That's twice now, Mr. Castle," she remarks, gazing at him with a wicked smile, before it softens and she lowers her eyes back toward the ground.

"Seriously, though, thank you, Rick," she gives him. He simply murmurs something under his breath that she doesn't catch, and smiles at her.

"How are you feeling?" he asks her.

"Like I was just drugged, surprisingly," she offers, still smiling, but still staring at her bare feet below.

"Speaking of," he begins, "I don't suppose you can shed any light on that, can you?"

"I wish I could, Rick," she says. She immediately sees the look on his face. He tries to hide it, but it crosses too quickly before he can catch himself. She instinctively realizes that this is one of those fork-in-the-road moments. She had been summarily dismissed from his office because he felt she was holding something back from him. And now, she realizes that he suspects she is doing it again. She has to correct this misinterpretation of his.

"Rick – I mean it," she tells him, giving him an earnest glimpse into her eyes. "I don't know who did this to me . . ." she pauses for a couple of seconds, another realization hitting her before she continues.

". . . and I don't think I know why either, for that matter."

"I was thinking the same thing, earlier," he admits to her, softening himself as well. "I was wondering what benefit was gained by you being knocked out. Is anything missing from –"

"No," she interrupts, finishing his thought. "I looked through my purse over there already. I cannot find anything missing – nothing at all," she finishes, almost with an air of frustration.

"Well, if nothing was taken, then what was this all about?" he asks. For half a second, he wonders about the likelihood that the woman drugged herself, but quickly puts the thought out of his mind.

"_Not even in one of my books,"_ he decides, realizing that an unconscious person can't hide the offending needle. He shakes his head, and then has to offer her a surprised and embarrassed shrug of the shoulders at her next comment.

"Not something I could administer to myself," she tells him, knowingly. "I guess I haven't given you much to trust me on," she admits.

"No, you haven't," he concurs. They are silent for a few seconds, which leads into half a minute. A full minute later, their silence deafening, a doctor knocks and enters the room.

_**Three hours later, Still the Same Day in Mid-July – Now at Serena Kaye's New York City Residence**_

It is a very tired Richard Castle, along with his companion, Serena Kaye, who walk through the underground garage, beneath the four-unit boutique building, just down from Madison Square Park. Fortunately, fate had smiled upon Castle and his car was still parked in the fire lane – ticketed of course – when he returned. He had been inside for less than ten minutes, having decided to go back outside a few minutes after the doctor arrived. Serena could bring him up to speed – if she so chose – he decided. He would simply wait for her, and then give her a ride wherever she needed to go.

About an hour and a half later, Serena was discharged, having satisfied the doctors there that she was fine. Another half hour later, she finished the paperwork and administrative requirements, picked up a prescription for the dull but fading headache she had, and walked outside.

He had texted her, telling her where to come, and she had texted back – finally – telling him she was on her way.

Surprisingly, the drive to her penthouse home had been fairly quiet.

"_She's had a day already,"_ he decided to himself, allowing her to dictate exactly what would or would not be discussed – at least for now.

So now, they walk to the underground elevator, and Serena pulls out her card key, and scans it quickly, calling the elevator down to the garage.

"Nice digs, Serena," he finally offers. She's already told him that she lives in a two-floor penthouse upstairs. The surprise had been that the penthouse is not hers.

"It's my brother's home, actually," she admitted. "Roland and I have always been very close. He took me in a few years ago after I had . . . after I had run into a bit of trouble," she finishes. Castle cannot tell if it is a smile or a frown that she offers with this statement – it is a mixture. He files this away.

"Roland, eh?" he asks.

"Yes. My older brother, Roland Kaye, philanthropist and entrepreneur," she says, now smiling proudly.

"I've heard of him," Castle admits, admiringly. "Made his money with software, and now focuses on helping young inner city children get an education," he recalls out loud.

"You _have_ heard of him," she smiles, now clearly pleased as she enters the elevator that has just arrived, the doors opening. Castle follows her, and watches as she depresses the 5th floor button and the doors close.

"He lives here with Ruth, his wife, and Kevin, their six-year old son," she finishes. "They are family, be nice," she warns good-naturedly, as she stands, arms-crossed during the ride up.

"Best behavior," he promises, staring forward. I still don't know why you want me to come up," he finishes.

"I just want to talk – I owe you that much," she says, and he can detect no ulterior motive from her tone or mannerisms. "Just for a few minutes," she says.

He nods his head in agreement, saying nothing more as the elevator dings and the door opens. A few seconds later, even Richard Castle finds himself whistling in admiration. Roland Kaye has done well for himself and his family, indeed.

The massive, six-thousand square foot penthouse is split into two levels, the 5th and 6th floors, each level running an entire street block, from one street corner to the next. There are four bedrooms, six bathrooms and a couple of living areas. Downstairs on the first level is a work-out gym, and a heavily secured entry area.

They are only a few steps into the home when Roland Kaye approaches them with a smile. At six feet, two inches, he is roughly the same height – maybe a smidgeon taller – as Richard Castle. The thick brown hair shows no sign of graying on the forty-two year old man, who extends a hand to Castle, graciously welcoming him into the home.

"Welcome, Mr. Castle," Roland says in greeting. "Serena texted me that you were bringing her home. I am glad you decided to come up, as I was hoping to meet you."

"Not much to meet," Castle says, extending his own hand, and his humility catches Serena off-guard, drawing a raised eyebrow that neither man sees.

"Quite a home you have here, Roland," Castle says, admiringly. "This is magnificent," he says with genuine awe, and it isn't like Richard Castle lives in what anyone would refer to as anything less than elegance himself.

"Thank you," Roland tells him, "but I have my wife to thank for that," he continues. Ruth Kaye picks that moment to turn the corner and walk down the hallway to greet her visitor. Castle is immediately taken with her long red hair, her soft, pale skin under makeup that hides a couple of nicely placed freckles. This beautiful, elegant woman could easily be Alexis in twenty years.

"Hello, Mr. Castle," she offers, hand extended. Castle takes her hand in a gentle grasp before releasing it, replacing his own hands into his pockets. He stands casually, taking in the grandeur of the place. Magnificent truly is the best word to describe it.

"Let me change," Serena states, walking away from her brother, his wife and Castle, towards the spiral staircase that leads upstairs to her bedroom. Castle nods, and then turns his head to the left, glancing out through the floor to ceiling windows. He then glances back to the right, taking a few steps toward the wall ahead. His eye is drawn immediately to the art on the walls, and the sculptures on display – both on tables and on the floor.

"You like art, Mr. Castle."

It's not a question, but rather a statement from Roland, who stands back taking in the writer. For now, that is how Roland and Ruth Kaye know of Richard Castle. If he walks another thirty feet toward the back, into the sunken living area, Richard Castle would find a few of his books on the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves. He doesn't make it that far.

"Beautiful," Castle says, taking in the artwork and the elaborate décor of the home. He walks toward the first painting on the wall, and shakes his head at the irony.

It is a Christian Lassen original, one that he had previously desired for himself. Entitled 'The Gift of Love', it is an abstract of a mother holding her infant child. Different shades of blue swirl throughout the canvas, dominating the piece, while just a few slivers of purple, olive and red pop out, pulling the viewer in. Being a fan of Lassen, Castle now understands why Serena Kaye was so taken with 'Secret Place', the painting on his office wall. It is impossible to see those two paintings and come to the conclusion that the same artist painted them.

"Christian Lassen. One of my favorites. Which gallery did you find this one in?" Castle asks.

"Hmmm," Roland begins. "Can't say that I remember. It was one of the local shows here though, just a few years ago."

Richard Castle pauses for a second, giving a quick look to the philanthropist before nodding and moving on.

"May I?" he asks, waiting for the invitation to continue further into the home.

"Of course, Mr. Castle," Ruth Kaye says, smiling. "Please."

Castle continues, walking at a slow pace, taking in the pieces and the sculptures. He finally comes to an opening, roughly ten feet across that opens into the living area. In this landing area, two walls on either side lead to the sunken room. On each wall, he smiles as he recognizes the familiar David Miller pieces that he himself has further back in his own office.

On the left wall hangs 'Revenge of the Sea', a gorgeous piece dominated again by the various shades of blue. An old-time schooner ship is caught in a storm, just off landfall near the safety of the lighthouse. A stone walkway leads up to lighthouse. You can tell that the ship is not going to last the night.

On the right wall hangs the sister piece, 'Eternal Light', which depicts the scene from early the next morning. The unfortunate schooner can be seen on the bottom of the ocean, off shore from the lighthouse, only this view is now from the other side of the island. The scene is calm, peaceful, and serene.

"Magnificent," he smiles again. "I have both of these at my office," he offers the couple with a smile. "Quite a message in these two, don't you think?"

"I . . . I never really thought about it," Ruth says with a smile. "I just love the colors, I just think they are beautiful pieces," she says.

Richard Castle returns her smile, but his mind has just hit a huge pothole and is stuck, his tires spinning aimlessly. Alarms are sounding right now. Four years spent with Kate Beckett and his friends from the 12th have taught him to pay attention these alarms.

"This way, Mr, Castle," Ruth says, steering him toward the sofa and chairs in the living area. He steps down the two steps into the sunken room.

"Rick," he offers. "Please call me Rick."

"Rick it is," Roland states affably. "Can I get you something to drink, Rick?"

"Malibu and Coke," Castle says. Normally a bourbon drinker, he wants something soft and gentle right now. There is something amiss here, and he doesn't want to miss anything.

"I have to tell you, it is really a generous act to take in your sister-in-law to your home, Ruth," he states, walking toward the bookshelf along the wall. "Not many would be so gracious."

"She is family," Ruth states, smiling warmly. "She and Roland have always been close, and she and I have grown close over the years. It works."

Castle smiles, both at her words, and at the realization that a couple of Nikki Heat and Derrick Storm novels adorn their place in the couple's expansive book collection.

"Who's the reader?" he asks.

"That would be me," Roland states, as he picks up a bottle of Malibu from the small bar area here in the living room, and then reaches into the glass enclosed mini-fridge for a small, miniature can of coke.

"Avid reader, always have been," he states, drawing a nod of approval from Castle. Castle glances along the bookshelf for another couple of minutes, not saying a word. He pulls a couple of books from the shelf, glancing and smiling with approval. He turns from the shelf and notices a few pictures on the wall. They are of Kevin, the Kaye's young son. There are a couple of pictures of him as a baby, and a few recent pictures – one from Disneyworld, where he stands holding a balloon in one hand, and cotton candy in the other, smiling brightly. His aunt Serena stands behind him, bending down with her arms wrapped around his shoulders. A second picture is of the young boy at Yankee Stadium, a Yankee cap sitting large atop his head. Here too, is a happy smile, as the boy sits next to his aunt.

He nods, understandingly, and his reverie is shaken a minute later, as Serena Kaye makes her return appearance. She is wearing white capris slacks and with yellow and rust top, with rust sandals. Her short curls of hair hang loosely and casually. He has to force himself to glance away.

Seconds later, little Kevin Kaye comes running into the living area. Castle idly wonders about the alliteration of such a name, and what kind of teasing the young boy might be in for.

"Mommy!" the young lad shouts, running toward Ruth Kaye. Ruth bends to hug the youngster, and Castle quickly glances back at Serena Kaye, who watches the exchange between mother and son with a smile that hides an odd expression. Nodding his head, his suspicions now confirmed, Richard Castle looks to take his leave.

"You know . . ." he states, taking the small tumbler of ice and drink from Roland Kaye and downing it is three large gulps, stunning the adults there.

". . . I need to get running," he finishes, after enjoying the taste of the coconut mixture for a half second. "Thank you for your brief hospitality," he says to the couple. "You have a beautiful home."

"Are you sure you can't stay, see the rest of the house, Rick?" Ruth offers.

"No thank you, Ruth. It's getting late and I have another appointment that I can't miss," he states.

"Oh?" Serena asks, with a bit of surprise.

"With my publisher," Rick lies.

"_I'm getting nothing but lies here. No need for me to feel bad about a little white lie myself,"_ he thinks.

Seconds later, after taking his leave, he reaches the front door to the landing and the elevator when Serena slides beside him.

"I will walk you down," she offers.

"No need," he states, eyes forward, waiting for the elevator to arrive.

"Oh, there is definitely a need," she tells him, whispering now. "You're a smart man, Richard Castle. I didn't think you'd pick up on it so quickly."

The door opens, saving both of them. Castle quickly enters, and pushes the button for the ground level. Nothing happens.

"You need this," she tells him, swiping her card key. "Need it coming up and going down."

"Convenient," he gives her, and nothing else.

They descend to the garage in silence, with Serena searching for the right words, and Castle willing the damn thing to go faster. Finally, the unit stops and the doors open. Castle forgets – or ignores – his typical manners and simply walks out of the unit, without waiting for Serena. His gait is quick now, and she has to jog to catch up with him in the large parking garage.

"Dammit Rick, wait up," she says, and is struck by the suddenness of him, as he stops walking and turns to face her.

"Last chance," he says through gritted teeth. "Belly up now, or we are done, Serena."

She nods her head, quickly, in agreement, and leans against his red sports car parked in the guest parking spot close to the elevator.'

"Ask me anything," she says. She hates this. She is not comfortable with this. But she owes him this. She owes him the truth, if he wants it.

"That is not your brother's home," he says softly.

"No, it is not," she agrees.

"It's yours," he states.

"Yes."

"So you own this penthouse – which makes sense by the way – while your brother and his wife and child live with you."

"Yes."

"So, you took _them_ in, not the other way around."

"What gave them away?" she asks. No one has ever figured out the truth to their living arrangements – ever. That Richard Castle has done so, and done it so quickly is both fascinating and alarming to the insurance investigator.

"The Lassen piece, for one," he says, and he sees the smile pierce her face. "It was your piece. I asked Roland where he got it, and he couldn't remember. Said some local show. You don't buy a Lassen original and not remember when and where you got it. You just don't."

She nods in agreement, realizing that Castle probably figured this out within minutes of being in her home.

Amazing. And concerning.

"Second, you get these pieces at a Lassen gallery, and those are in Maui or Las Vegas."

She nods, again, in agreement, deciding not to say anything.

"Third, there are two David Miller pieces hanging in the entry to the living room," he finishes. "Gorgeous pieces, by the way, Serena."

"They had no idea the story behind them, did they?"

"Not a clue – and that is just damn near impossible. Even if you don't ask, the sales person selling you those two pieces is going to give you the story. It's impossible to buy those two works and not hear the story – and just as impossible to just forget the story once you have heard it."

She nods her head, and picks herself off of the side of Castle's Ferrari, arms out and hands open.

"Guilty as charged. It is my house, my art. I took them in because Roland was broke." Her admission brings a look of shock to Castle's face, and Serena chastises herself for taking satisfaction in his surprise. Seems he didn't figure just everything out.

"How can he be broke?" Castle asks, incredulously. "He's a billion-"

"No he's not," she quickly interrupts. "He lost most of his money . . . most of their money through a couple of hasty and ill-informed investments. My home and my money, however, allow them the illusion of a different life - their former life."

Seeing Castle's confusion, she continues.

"We bought this place a few years ago, and when we bought it, we put it in Roland's name – with some very secret papers in a lockbox that document that I am the actual owner of the home, and that the home cannot be sold without my permission. But Roland and I always had a soft spot for inner city kids, for kids who – without a lot of help and guidance – are going to stay stuck in a very hard life. So his philanthropy is something that I fund – through him. It keeps me off the radar, and keeps him in the public light in a positive manner."

Castle nods, his face unable to withhold the newfound respect and admiration he has for the beautiful but highly complicated woman standing in front of him. There is obviously a reason – a damn good one, and probably a better story – as to why Serena Kaye allows this charade. That is something she can share with him someday, if she so chooses.

"Anything else to share?" he asks her.

"No, I think you have figured this out. First one to do so, by the way," she gives him.

"Then I will say goodbye," he says, beginning to move around to the driver's side of his car, unlocking the door with his remote keys.

"Richard," she says suddenly, realizing that he has not only figured out her brother's secret, but somehow has figured out her secret as well. Her eyes cannot hide the fear she feels, and he sees the fear clearly. It gives him a quick change of heart.

"Richard," she repeats. "Ask me," she says, resignedly.

He stares at her for a few seconds, knowing she is granting him access to a place that very likely no one else has seen. Nodding his head slightly, he shatters the glass surrounding her perfectly created world.

"Kevin is not their son," he says softly, and the guilt pounds him as he sees the tears quickly forming in her eyes.

"No," she says softly, fighting for composure.

"He's yours."

"Yes," she says, and turns away from him, resting her hips against the side of his car, her face in her hands.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Wonder: Chapter 13**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Still the Same Day – 6:15 p.m. – at Federal HQ in D.C.**_

Kate watches as the Windows screen powers down, going into hibernation mode. It's been a long day, finishing up paperwork from the North Dakota case, filling out her expense report, and reviewing the scheduled meetings for the next few days.

She has just made reservations to return to New York City, to visit a certain author. She has no idea that creating new stories and novels has now become his second priority. His foray into the private investigation ranks is – at this point – completely unknown to her. All she knows right now is that their last phone conversation went horribly, and that Dr. Burke has helped her see a few things a bit more clearly, from a different perspective.

Perspective. It's an interesting word, and one that – she now realizes – is and has been the crux of many of her problems with one Richard Castle. The perspective from which she has always lived her life has been her own. She recognizes this to be a normal thing for any person. However, she also is beginning – finally – to recognize that no one else – on the planet – lives their lives from Kate's perspective. Each person has their own. Richard Castle has his own.

Finally – the conversation with her esteemed therapist has also helped her recognize that relationships often succeed or fail based upon how well each person can view, understand and accept the perspective of others.

In this regard, Kate Beckett realizes she has been woefully inept with one Richard Castle.

Even when she picked up the telephone to speak with her ex-partner – and ex-lover – in New York, even when she did so with the expressed purpose of apologizing, she managed to screw that up. And all because of that damned thing called perspective.

So now, she has made an airline reservation, so that she can go and have a direct, face-to-face conversation not only with Richard Castle, but with Dr. Carter Burke as well. She suspects – hell, scratch that – she knows for certain that she owes quite a few people apologies. But instead of clicking 'Buy Ticket' on the airline site in her computer browser, she had settled for clicking 'HOLD'. She has the reservation on hold for twenty-four hours.

She doesn't want to rush into anything – that, too, has been one of her problems. For the past hour she has considered her damaged relationship with Castle, and also considered what she has learned today; what she has seen today.

Seeing Eric Vaughn has shaken her. Seeing Senator Bracken's name on the computer ledger has shaken her. She has no real proof, mind you, but she is now certain – as certain as she can be – that Eric Vaughn's little episode in her life a few months ago was very likely orchestrated by outside forces. There was nothing accidental or coincidental about the 12th Precinct getting his case, or by her getting the baby-sitting . . . body-guard assignment to watch over the philanthropist. It explains why the man came on to her. It explains why the man kissed her. And it explains why the man had disappeared without so much as a subsequent phone call in the past couple of months.

Not that she was looking for, or wanting a phone call. But as much as she was not looking for one, it didn't make sense that he would _not_ call. Not after she had 'saved' him, so to speak, and not after he had kissed her. And regardless of her status with Richard Castle – those things don't matter to people like Eric Vaughn. It didn't matter to Vaughn when he decided to kiss her. So why should it matter now?

It matters now, because he was likely _told_ to get close to her, to distract her, to win her over.

Once again – for the fifth or sixth time today – Kate Beckett bangs her hands in frustration on her desk, realizing just how professionally she has been played. Again, she has no rock-solid proof. But as a detective . . . as an ex-detective, she is following her gut here.

"_I was shown this earlier today,"_ she reminds herself. _"I was not supposed to see Eric walk in there."_

It is this thought that has kept her from punching her return ticket to New York just yet. She has seen something she wasn't supposed to see. What does one do with information like that? What does one do when you see something you weren't supposed to see? Moving on, acting like normal simply is not an option for her, not right now. For the past couple of months, she has been a piece on a chess board, being moved by an unseen person or persons. And now it appears pretty darn clear that Senator William Bracken is behind this. Again, she has no rock solid evidence, but the mound of circumstantial evidence has now grown to staggering and heights that can no longer be ignored.

There is nothing she would like to do right now more than to rush back to New York. Rush back to Richard Castle, rush back to her friends at the 12th. Rush back to identify whatever it is that Senator Bracken wanted her out of New York for.

The truth, however, is that the smart play, the better play would be for her to stay here and see how a couple of things play out. Instead of rushing back into the fray in New York with no plan, and only a hunch – the better play is for her to find out as much as she can from here before going back. If this is a chess match then she needs to realize two things:

First, she is playing against a master.

Second, she needs to start thinking two, three, four moves in advance. This plodding, reactive mode has got to stop, or she is going to get herself – or someone she loves - killed. She cannot shake the feeling that for the Senator, the end game for Kate Beckett is, has always been and will always be her death. He's just patiently waiting, biding his time, making his moves, playing his game, and evidently killing people along the way just because they are – to him – pieces to be discarded after use.

It is a game she now has joined as a more observant player.

It is why she has not called Eric Vaughn. Everything inside her screamed at her to call the billionaire, to call him on who and why he might be meeting in her building.

Discretion, however, slammed the door on such thinking, reminding her that she has been gifted with seeing him there, and he does not know this. So doing anything to let on that she knows is a bad move. A move that could easily end in a quick checkmate.

It is also why – she has decided – she will wait a couple of days before calling him. Oh, make no mistake, she is going to call him, they are going to talk, and she is going to put her vast interrogating and interviewing experience to good use. She has skills in this sort of thing, and she knows how to get information out of people without their knowledge. But calling him earlier today, or tonight, or even tomorrow, would look far too coincidental.

"_And there are no coincidences,"_ she reminds herself with a smile. She believes this, and she realized earlier this afternoon that her enemy likely believes that also.

"_Calling too soon will tip my hand, it will let them know that I know,"_ she thinks to herself yet again. _"There is no way I can call the same day, or even a day after Eric shows up here and them not suspect. But if I wait a couple of days – maybe three days – I can push off any suspicion."_

There is, however, something she can do this evening. She smiles, and stands, straightening her pants and blouse. She glances over at her jacket before shaking her head. She doesn't need it for this.

"_The more casual the better,"_ she says to herself.

She walks out of her office and down the hallway to the much larger office at the end. She knocks, and enters, nodding at Freedman's receptionist.

"Is he in?" she asks.

"Yes, Agent Beckett. Is he expecting you?" Sandy Gross asks, glancing down at her screen as she pulls up the Deputy Director's calendar.

"No, he isn't, Sandy" Kate responds affably. "This will only take a few minutes."

Sandy nods, and stands quickly, moving toward Freedman's door. She opens it and ushers the Federal Agent inside.

"Agent Beckett is here to see you, sir," she tells Freedman, who looks up and simply nods his head.

"What can I do for you, Kate?" he greets her with a smile.

"Nothing, sir," she responds. "I've just been thinking a bit today about this last case, and there are a few loose ends that aren't making sense. It might be nothing, but I'd just like to make sure."

"What are you proposing?" he asks, genuinely curious. Although is not a huge fan of hers, he knows the woman _is_ capable.

"Just a quick return trip, sir. I've already booked my flight, with your permission, and can be back there tomorrow late morning. I have a flight to Chicago tonight and a connecting flight in the morning to North Dakota. If everything falls in place, I can be back by Friday. Just a day there, overnight and back."

The Deputy Director considers this new development. He knows that Kate Beckett has been somewhat frustrated – boy is that an understatement – about her assignments. That she might have actually found something in one of them is a curious development. He shakes the thought out of his mind.

"_It's what she is supposed to do,"_ he reminds himself, and has to admit a bit of grudging admiration for her dedication.

A few seconds later, he nods and smiles. "Of course, Kate – that's your job. That's our job."

She doesn't wait for any additional conversation. Instead she simply smiles and takes her leave.

"Thank you, sir," she says, and bids a hasty retreat, feigning urgency. The sooner she gets out of this building, the better. She did, in fact, make a reservation to return to North Dakota. And she will get on the plane to Chicago this evening. However, she won't make her connecting flight in the morning. She has business in Chicago.

As she walks back to her office, smiling, she pulls out her cell phone. She waits until she is in her office, back seated in her chair before pulling up her contacts. She quickly types a note into the text window.

_KATE: Done. I've bought us a day. I leave tonight._

She begins packing her things, and grabs her jacket. She heads to the door and is walking toward the elevator, headed home to pack an overnight bag when her phone pings with the return text.

_JORDAN: Good. I'll pick you up at O'Hare. 10pm?_

Kate smiles. Jordan Shaw has turned out to be a good friend in these past couple of months. One of the few Feds that Kate has dealt with that she both liked and respected – Will doesn't count right now – she had sought out the FBI profiler from Chicago just a few days into her stint in purgatory. At least that is what it is turning out to be, it appears.

_KATE: Yeah, 9:55. Thanks J._

Kate puts her phone back into her purse, and punches the ground floor button in the elevator. She knows there will be no reply from Jordan in Chicago. Jordan never signs off like a normal person. There's no goodbye, or 'see you later' or anything like that. To Jordan, a simple 'Thanks' is a goodbye, no matter who says it.

Staying with Jordan tonight will give them time to have two good conversations. Tomorrow they will talk about Deputy Director Freedman and this assignment of hers, and whatever information Jordan has dug up on one William Bracken. Tonight? Tonight they are going to talk about Richard Castle. Jordan was appalled at the very concept of Kate leaving New York, and Castle, for this job. Kate had originally chalked Jordan's response up to just one more person who just didn't understand.

As it turns out, the person who was clueless turned out to be Kate herself – a fact she is now firmly - if reluctantly - embracing.

She steps out of the elevator, out of the building and hails a cab. As she slides in, she smiles to herself. It feels good to have a plan, it feels good to be taking control of her life back. She sits back as the cab pulls away from the curb, and grabs her phone once again. This time she pulls up Richard Castle's contact information, and begins typing. Suddenly she stops, and deletes her text.

"_No – I said that he and I need a face-to-face. Patience, Kate. Patience."_

She leans back, closes her eyes, feeling better than she has in weeks.

_**Same Evening, Mid-July, 10:05 p.m. at O'Hare Airport in Chicago **_

It is a surprisingly refreshed Kate Beckett that gets off the plane and walks along the jet bridge at Gate H14 at O'Hare airport. It is just after 10pm, and the flight has arrived on time, thankfully. She is grateful that Jordan Shaw had volunteered to pick her up tonight and doesn't want her friend to have to wait any longer than necessary. She had offered to take a cab to Jordan's suburban home, but Jordan had insisted on picking her up.

"Some things we can talk about at home tomorrow," Jordan had said earlier. "But there are things we're gonna talk about tonight, Kate," she had warned, cheerily. Now, as she walks through the H terminal and out to the lower level baggage claim, Kate is both anxious and apprehensive about this pending conversation.

No matter, a few minutes later she is out the door into the warm Chicago evening. A honk from the horn of a gold 2011 Lexus RX300 catches her attention, and Kate sees the waving federal profiler through the front windshield. Smiling, Kate walks to the car, opening the back passenger door and throwing her overnight bag inside. She slides into the front passenger seat, and the two women pause in greeting.

Not sure whether to stick her hand out or lean in for one of those air-kisses that she absolutely abhors, Kate is pleasantly surprised when Shaw leans over and brushes her cheek with her own in greeting. The two women – although somewhat frequent texting and telephone buddies over the past couple of months – really are still feeling each other out. They've been together, face-to-face only once, and that not under the best of circumstances. And if that isn't the story of Kate Beckett's life, she doesn't know what it.

"Looks like they are paying you well enough," Kate smiles, touching the dashboard of the luxury SUV.

"You should know," counters Jordan. "You're on the payroll, too, girl." Both women share a chuckle before Jordan launches right into the reason for Kate's late night flight to the Midwest.

"Well, I have to say, you do lead a most interesting life, and coming from an FBI profiler, that is saying something," Jordan says, still chuckling.

"Much of it is self-inflicted, I have to admit," Kate smiles.

"It usually is," Jordan agrees. Changing gears, Jordan decides to talk shop first.

"I know we said we would talk turkey tonight, but let's get a little bit of shop work out of the way first," Jordan tells her, and Kate only nods her head in agreement. A slight reprieve won't be turned down tonight.

"Here is what I have discovered. Senator William Bracken's got his eyes on the big prize in D.C. He wants to be president."

The recoil in Kate is obvious to Jordan, even from her peripheral vision's vantage point as she navigates the vehicle through the surprisingly heavy traffic exiting the airport at this late hour.

"_This airport really doesn't sleep,"_ she reminds herself, then continues.

"I won't pretend to say that I know how distasteful even the possibility of that man being in the White House is to you, Kate – but it is what it is, and we are where we are. His political war chest is increasing in size, but there are no donors associated with the increase. Bracken's political value proposition to voters is that he is not beholden to any lobbyists or other special interests. He isn't taking any money from any of them."

"So where is the money coming from?" Kate wonders aloud. "Obviously he is building his campaign funds if what you say is true. But if he isn't getting it from lobbyists, and he certainly isn't getting it from his government salary – well . . ."

"That doesn't leave many options, does it Kate?" Jordan states – more a statement than a question. "Here is what I do know – scratch that – here is what I suspect. Whatever it is that is happening, whatever it is that is channeling money to the Senator, it is happening in New York."

"That's why he wanted me out of there," Kate states – again aloud. She is thinking this through, as Jordan gives her the new information.

"Probably so," Jordan agrees, as she jumps on to the freeway. "Still, we can look deeper into this tomorrow. I've taken the day off, and as long as nothing urgent or despicable pops up, I'm all yours for the day," she smiles.

"Thanks," Kate tells her. "I really appreciate this."

"Don't get too comfortable – because now, we have more important things to discuss," Jordan smiles, glancing at her passenger.

"Yes we do," Kate smiles, returning the eye contact.

"I have to say, it's good to finally see you rearranging those personal priorities of yours detective," Shaw chuckles. She has long been a fan of Kate Beckett and Richard Castle, and had heard, from Castle himself last year, that the two had finally gotten past all of the dance and innuendo. She was surprised – stunned really – to learn of Kate's employment in D.C., sans one Richard Castle.

"Ex-detective," Kate corrects her.

"Whatever," Jordan says dismissively. "Now let's talk about how to get that more important 'ex' back into the picture."

"Do you really think it's still possible?" Kate asks, serious in her question. After the last few exchanges with the novelist, Kate is far from sure of anything of the sort. Re-connecting with Richard Castle seems a long-shot, at best, right now.

"Of course it is," Jordan states without hesitation as she turns her blinker on, switching lanes to the faster left lane of the freeway. It's late and she wants to get home.

"How do you know?"

"Because he loves you Kate. He may not like you a lot right now, but the guy is ga-ga over you." Jordan explains, as if it is the most elementary knowledge in the world.

"How do you know? You don't know that, Jordan," Kate argues. "You haven't seen how he is now with me. He-"

"I was there only for a few days a few years ago and saw it, Kate. Hell, half your precinct probably saw it. I tried to tell you then, when I left, but you weren't ready for it. He was nuts for you then and –"

"But that was then, Jordan," Kate interrupts. "A lot has –"

"A guy doesn't fall for a woman and stay in love with her for years and then just stop," Jordan says emphatically, taking her eyes off the road to establish eye contact.

"But I lied to him, Jordan."

"He'll get over it."

Jordan sees the questioning look, the look of hopeful disagreement that paints itself across Kate's face. She shakes her head a bit. For such a smart woman, Kate is pretty naïve on issues of the heart.

"A lie, he can get over, Kate. It's not like you cheated on him or anything."

"Well . . ." Kate begins speaking, and then brings her fingers from her right hand up to the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes.

"Holy Shit, Kate! Please tell me you didn't," Jordan exclaims. Clearly this surprises the profiler. She always pegged Kate to be the reluctant type, with one foot out the door, an escape hatch ready. But she never figured any of those back-door exits would be necessary once the former detective finally gave into her feelings for the novelist.

"Well, not exactly," Kate mumbles, knowing how lame it sounds.

"Kate," Jordan begins, somewhat perturbed, "As my mom once told me – you're either pregnant or you're not. You're either a virgin or you're not. Now tell me – how in the world did you kinda, sorta, maybe, well not exactly not cheat on Richard Castle."

Kate sighs. She knew this would come up. She knew she would have to defend the indefensible. It was lame when she tried to justify it to Castle, and to her own dad. Justifying it now will sound just as lame. So she doesn't. She just tells the story.

"Ever hear of Eric Vaughn?" she asks.

"Sure. Billionaire. Handsome. On my Last Supper List for sure."

This draws a laugh from Kate, and she almost – almost – breaks down on the spot. Unknowingly, Jordan has hit a nerve, using the exact language that Richard Castle had used when first describing Vaughn. She wonders again at how in tune the profiler seems to be with the writer, but dismisses the thought. She does realize, however, that she is more than relieved – she is truly grateful that the woman next to her is happily married.

"Castle used the same term," she tells Jordan, who only chuckles herself.

"Anyway, Eric Vaughn . . ." Jordan pauses then glances over at Kate. "You didn't!"

Kate begins to tell Jordan about the case from earlier this year. Just a few months ago, in fact. It seems like a lifetime ago, now.

"There was a murder that turned out to be a botched attempt on Vaughn's life," Kate begins. "Once it became clear that he was the target, and we had no idea who the killer was, we put a detail on him."

"Okay, that's standard stuff," Jordan says, her eyes back on the road.

"I was the detail," Kate says simply.

Jordan glances back over at her, an eyebrow raised, and a smirk forming on her lips.

"And that was ok with you?" she asks.

"Look, who's telling the story here," Kate says, getting flustered.

"Okay, okay," Jordan states, properly chastised. "Continue."

"So anyway, there is an attempt on his life. He was at a restaurant and his plate was poisoned. Or at least it was supposed to be poisoned. But the poison ended up on the wrong plate, and an investor at the table with him died instead. When we realized his life was still in danger, we put the detail on him. Captain Gates assigned me. Said it came from higher up."

She pauses, waiting for her driving companion to say anything. She sees the smirk on Jordan's face now firmly in place, and ignores it.

"So, he can't stay in his hotel, because the killer might know where he is."

"Of course not," states the profiler behind the wheel. "So they put the two of you up in some luxurious hotel, with great views of the city and champagne and strawberries . . ." Jordan lets the sentence drop off and the look on Kate's face tells her she is right

"Good Lord, Kate Beckett, don't you read romance novels? Have you not seen a television show in the last decade? Hell, Jenna could have spotted this one and she's only eleven!" Seeing the pained expression on Kate's face, Jordan relents.

"OK, so what happened," she says, waiting for Kate to provide the additional details.

"We were there in the living room of – yes – a very nice and luxurious hotel, in front of this huge window, and he leans in and kissed me."

"And you pushed him away, right," Jordan asks, eyeing the road.

"Yes, of course," Kate says, then pauses. "After a couple of seconds."

"A couple of seconds?" Jordan asks, incredulously.

"A few seconds, maybe," Kate admits.

Jordan shakes her head, almost disappointedly. Not judging. Just disappointed.

"So you let him kiss you."

"Briefly Jordan," Kate allows. "I was surprised, I was –"

"Hold on, Kate," Jordan interrupts, now frowning. The smirk is gone, and a much more serious face has taken its place.

"No means no. Yes means yes. I was surprised and wasn't sure what to do? Uh, that's a yes, Kate."

Kate doesn't say anything. She has promised herself she isn't going to get defensive and try to justify herself tonight.

"Did he know about you and Castle?" Jordan asks her.

"Yes."

"Did _you_ remember about you and Castle?" Jordan asks.

"Hey, you're supposed to be helping here," Kate pushes back.

"Trust me, I am. Step one is getting through your thick head," Jordan counters, still not smiling. This is a surprise, indeed.

"So, did Castle find out?" she asks.

"Yeah," is all Kate says.

"How?"

"While we were in the hotel room, someone tried to shoot Eric," Kate explains. "I guess we should have closed the window shades. Anyway, when he leaned in to kiss me, he left the crosshairs. The shot came through the window and missed him."

"Really, now?" Jordan states – her expression one of disbelief.

"Yes, really. And when we re-enacted it for the rest of the investigation, Castle was there and he realized –"

"No," Jordan interrupts again. "Let's go back to him kissing you," she states.

"He leans in. He kisses you. You hold him there. And because he is kissing you, a bullet shot through the window misses him."

"Yes," Kate replies. Jordan turns and stares at her for a couple of seconds, holding the eye contact just long enough for Kate to worry about Jordan's driving.

"How convenient," the federal profiler finally states, her focus back on the road in front of her.

"What do you mean?" Kate asks, clearly puzzled by Jordan's response.

"C'mon Kate, you have to admit that's pretty damn coincidental," Jordan says.

"What are you getting at?"

"I am getting at maybe he wasn't the intended target, Kate."

"You think I was?" Kate responds. This was something she clearly had never considered – not during the case, and not since.

"No," is Jordan's only response, and the two women remain quiet for the next few seconds. Jordan decides to allow the former detective/now federal agent figure this out.

Kate thinks for a moment, and then it registers. Eric Vaughn is somehow in cahoots with Senator Bracken – this much Kate already suspects. Eric Vaughn just happens to have one of his investors murdered in front of him at a restaurant.

Jordan is now talking out loud, saying what Kate is thinking

"Think back Kate," Jordan instructs her. "Eric Vaughn is sitting at table in a restaurant. Someone tries to kill him there, but fails because the wrong plate is delivered, and someone else dies. Eric is spared."

"Yeah?" Kate responds, questioning where this is going.

"Later, he is with you, in a romantic setting, on a high floor in a luxury penthouse. There is plenty of time for someone to take a shot, and someone tries to kill him again, but they fail again. This time they miss because he is kissing you. Once again, Eric is spared."

"Yeah," Kate states. Now it is no longer a question. The pieces are falling together.

"I gotta tell you, Kate," Jordan states with her trademark smirk, "This is the worst contract killer I've ever heard of. He's a damn sitcom in the waiting."

Kate shakes her head, wondering how and why this train of thought never occurred to her. She wonders why a natural pessimist such as herself wouldn't have asked these questions. She is afraid of the answer.

"Hindsight really does give you a different perspective," she says, settling for the easy out.

"Yes it does," Jordan states. "So let's decide what this means, Kate."

"It means that Eric Vaughn was a plant. I've already begun to suspect that," Kate says, glancing at her companion.

"I know you have," Jordan allows. "But you haven't asked the most important question."

"Which is?"

"Which is – _Why_ was Eric planted in your life?," Jordan replies. "So he could kiss you? I don't think so."

"Perhaps . . ." Kate begins, but then she trails off, not knowing where her thoughts are going.

"Let me give you another viewpoint, Kate," Jordan continues.

"Shoot," Kate states, now leaning back into her seat, closing her eyes.

"What if Eric Vaughn was planted – not for that moment a few months ago – but for a moment that is yet to come?" Jordan hypothesizes. "You told me on the phone today that you suspect that Bracken pulled strings to get you to DC and away from New York."

"Yes," Kate answers, her eyes still closed.

"And Richard Castle is in New York," Jordan states.

"Yes."

"Your heart is in New York," Jordan continues.

"Yes," states Kate, opening eyes that now threaten to mist.

"Save the waterworks, girl, we're not there yet," Jordan chuckles, and Kate joins her, smiling and closing her eyes again.

"Ok," she says aloud.

"Castle is in New York," Jordan is continuing now, counting off points being made on fingers that sit atop her steering wheel. "Your heart is in New York, your friends are in New York, your dad is in New York. But Bracken wants you in D.C. – that's what you believe," Jordan finishes.

"Yes," Kate agrees, eyes still closed.

"You're lonely, Kate. You're tired of what seem to be simplistic jobs and cases. Maybe, just maybe, you might be thinking of going back home."

Kate is quiet, her eyes closed, but Jordan glances at her quickly and knows the woman hears. And is thinking. Finally.

"And now, Kate - all of the sudden - Eric Vaughn shows up in D.C.," Jordan states.

That's what does it. That's when it happens, as the wheels in Kate's brain are spinning now, and she begins to comprehend exactly how far ahead, how many moves ahead of her Senator Bracken actually is – and has always been. She begins to realize exactly how well-planned this entire episode actually has been. Jordan Shaw, however, doesn't let up, but continues forward.

"Kate, you told me earlier that you were going to wait a couple of days before you call Eric Vaughn, so as not to give yourself away."

"Yeah," Kate agrees, recalling their earlier phone conversation this afternoon.

"Kate - I wouldn't be surprised – in fact – I would bet my reputation that you're going to get a call from Eric Vaughn. And soon. Within days, I would imagine –"

"Because Eric Vaughn is back in D.C. to keep me occupied," a now wide alert Kate Beckett interrupts. "To keep me busy."

"That's why Eric Vaughn was planted in your life, Kate."

"A man lost his life over this, Jordan," Kate reflects.

"To Bracken, that's just a move of a pawn on the chess board."

"I lost the man I love," Kate states, and now the tears are starting to come. But they are not tears of sadness. They are tears of anger.

"Again, just another move of a pawn on his board, Kate." Jordan pauses, watching the struggle consuming her friend. "Not to be insensitive, Kate, but you lost your mother to a move like this – from this man's board."

Jordan watches the emotions begin to burst forward with her friend, and reaches over with her right hand, and clutches Kate's left hand.

"Now would be the time for those waterworks, Kate."


	14. Chapter 14

**The Wonder: Chapter 14**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Same Day – In the Park across the Street from Serena's Loft**_

Richard Castle sits nervously on the park bench, fidgeting like a young schoolboy. The confident, almost playfully arrogant air about him has taken its leave. In its place, he seems highly uncomfortable as Serena Kaye sits on the bench alongside him, leaving roughly two feet of distance between the two. She cannot place why the change in the man since they walked out of the garage, across the street to this park. She is just grateful that he has stuck around. And she is more than curious as to how he figured out the paternity of her son.

"What's wrong, Richard?" she asks. You look as if you've lost your best friend all of the sudden."

He pauses to glance at her. Of course she wouldn't know. Who would know. Parks, and especially swings, are not his favorite place to be anymore. There are too many bad memories from the last time he found himself in the park with a beautiful woman.

"I'm . . . I'm not a big fan of parks," he says, offering nothing more.

"You're kidding, right?" Serena asks incredulously. "Of all of the people I have met in my life, I would have sworn that Richard Castle would be the one person who absolutely would love parks!"

The small smile on his face gives nothing away, and neither do his words.

"That's a story for another time, Serena," he says quietly. "I think your story is far more important right about now."

She nods her head, and looks away at the young couple that jogs by along the running path just ten feet away from them. She silently wonders how in the world her life got so darn complicated, and sighs in frustration as she knows there is no easy solution for her.

"What gave me away?" she finally asks him, looking back to face him . . . to face the music.

"The pictures, for one," he tells her. "Quite a few pictures back there of Kevin," he states, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb to her loft building. "But none of them with Ruth. All of them either by himself, or with you. Not one picture with Ruth, not one picture with Roland."

Serena smiles, and nods, making a mental note to get a couple of pictures taken with Kevin and her brother and his wife. If Castle picked up on this so quickly, then someone else might as well, someday.

"_And no one can ever know the truth,"_ she reminds herself, and she fights off a shiver that has nothing to do with the heat.

"Had I not already been suspicious of who really owned that loft back there, I probably wouldn't have picked up on the pictures," he admits. "But by the time I got to the living area and the books and pictures . . . well, my radar was just on high alert, I guess."

She nods again, and begins to speak, but he cuts her off.

"That, and I noticed the way you looked at Kevin when he went to hug Ruth," he tells her. "There was a look on your face. I recognized that look. I see it every now and then when Meredith looks at Alexis."

He sees the confused look on her face and explains.

"Alexis is my daughter, off to college. Freshman. I raised her as a single dad for most of her life after her mother, Meredith, left."

That gets him a raised eyebrow from the blonde insurance investigator, who opens her mouth to say something, but after a quick pause, changes her mind.

"Sometimes – not often, mind you, - but sometimes when she would visit us, Meredith would have that look on her face. A look that reminds you what you have given up. A look of both love and loss. She, unfortunately doesn't get that look often, as I said, but I know that look. And I saw that look on your face, in spades, when Kevin walked in and ran to Ruth."

Serena nods, and truth be told, she is feeling a bit better about things. Yeah, she needs to add a few different photographs, and she needs to make sure that Roland and Ruth are a bit more educated on all of the art throughout the home, but it appears what really gave her away was a combination of things. Not any one thing. Changing the family photographs and hoping that another single mom, dad or art connoisseur doesn't roll into her loft is probably enough, and she chuckles to herself.

"Something funny?" he asks, with no malice, just curiosity.

"No, no not really. More a laugh of relief, actually," she says, and he decides not to press her. She's given him quite a bit already today.

"Can I ask why the charade with your son?" he asks, again trying not to pry too deeply, too quickly. "I kind of get, I suppose, the whole thing with your house and Roland's reputation and public persona. I get that, and just a side note here, I have to admit my respect for you rocketed back there," he smiles. "Not that I didn't already hold you with high regard, Serena, but such a selfless act is rare. At least in my life it is," he adds softly, his gaze shifting momentarily.

She notices the change, and files it away. She'll ask him about this later. For now, the one with trust issues between the two of them has been him. Today is her chance to resolve those issues.

"I became pregnant seven years ago when I was in Europe. Roland and Ruth lived in London, where he was making a name for himself. Roland was living a very promising, very legal life, and desperate to start a family," she muses, remembering their time across the pond. "My life was more . . . challenging with the legal authorities," she smiles, and knowing her past, Castle simply chuckles. She is grateful he doesn't press her on this.

"Anyway, I became pregnant, and roughly four or five months later, Ruth became pregnant also."

"What about the father of your baby?" Castle asks, and immediately realizes that he has asked the wrong question and overstepped. Serena's eyes darken as she gazes at Castle, before she stands up and steps away from the bench. She stands on her own for a few seconds, and Castle decides to give her the moment she evidently needs.

Instead, Serena takes off, walking along the path, deeper into the park and away from her home. Surprised, Castle jumps up and jogs to catch up with her. Once alongside, he apologizes profusely.

"I have overstepped, and touched on something sensitive," he begins, surprised that it is difficult to keep pace with the shorter woman.

"I'm sorry, Serena, I didn't mean to . . . hey can you slow down for a moment," he says, gently grabbing her arm to turn her to face him. That's when he sees the tears, and realizes why she walked away so briskly. Serena isn't the type of woman to let others see this type of emotion.

He quickly takes a couple of steps, placing himself in front of her, forcing her to either stop or walk around him. She chooses option B, and he has to jog quickly to once again, place himself in her path as he stops. This time she stops also, her face looking down at the ground, at her feet. A few seconds later, she lifts wet eyes to face him, and there is a look of defiance painted on her face. He nods appreciatively. Despite his concerns, he really likes this woman. He suspects she could use a friend right now, and wonders how many of those she truly has. It's a thought that has been a frequent visitor to him as well over the past couple of months. Kate Beckett leaving, the void that she left, has given him an important glimpse into those around him. He's found that the number of friends – really true friends – that he has are few.

Very few.

He suspects the same to be true for the woman in front of him.

"I'm sorry, Serena," he says, holding her shoulders gently. He doesn't hold them tightly. He wants her to know she can leave at any point, he's not going to physically restrain her.

"How could you know," she says softly, and as friendly as she can, she brushes his hands away from her shoulder, and then folds her arms in front of her. Neither of them moves as an older man with a golden retriever walk around them at a brisk pace.

"I don't need to know, Serena," he tells her. "Just finish your story. Ruth became pregnant four or five months after you did. Go ahead. Whatever you decide to leave out, leave out. I won't press you anymore."

She glances up at him again. She doesn't smile, but she doesn't frown either. He takes that as the truce they need right now.

"Ruth became pregnant, and lost her baby about three months into it. She and Roland took it hard. About the same time, I delivered. Kevin came about a month early," she says. Now she pauses, and starts to walk again. Castle isn't sure whether to follow or not, and so he stays put, watching her walk away.

Serena is six or seven steps in front of him when she stops, and turns.

"Are you coming or not?" she asks, then turns and continues walking. Castle takes off, jogging the ten or so yards it takes to catch up to her, and once he is alongside her, she continues as if he had been there the entire time.

"About that time, it looked as if I was in danger of going to jail on . . . certain charges. I had already made arrangements for Roland to look after my baby in the event that I was put away. It was just worst-case scenario, of course."

"Of course," Castle agrees, almost too quickly, and immediately chides himself.

"Well, the worst-case scenario played out," she says, and he can see the sadness in her eyes as he glances at her. He can hear the sadness still glued to her voice as she speaks.

"I ended up serving fourteen months before getting out on early release. Turns out the local cops had planted some evidence. This coincided with the government deciding that they required my . . . expertise in a matter of a stolen relic. I helped them out, and got my life back. Well, most of it."

Castle simply nods, as his respect and sympathy for Serena Kaye grows with every step through the park. He is beginning to understand the trust issues the woman harbors. He tries to imagine what it must have been like for Serena to give birth, only to have her child taken away – only to miss the entire first year of her child's life. As if reading his thoughts, Serena continues.

"His first steps. His first teething. His first words," she says sadly, emotion rich in her voice. "I missed all of them."

"Amazing that I would know two women who lost that early time with their child," Castle muses, and she glances his way as they walk. "Meredith gave her time up intentionally. You had yours taken away."

She doesn't say anything for the next twenty or thirty yards as they walk. The park is quiet around them, and Castle waits her out, knowing she will continue in her own time. A few more steps, and she begins speaking again. It is heart-rending.

"The first time he said 'mama' . . . Ruth heard those words, not me," she says, and Castle can now feel the despair that threatens to consume his walking companion.

"That's why you didn't take him back?" he asks. "Because he'd already 'adopted' more or less, Roland and Ruth as his dad and mom?"

"That, and the fact that I had already been railroaded into jail once. In my line of business, that – and other unfortunate events – is always a possibility."

He nods in understanding, now realizing the complexities that come with living in her world. He recalls the Robin Hood nature of her business, according to her, from their earlier case. Taking invaluable works of art – pieces that may have been in a museum or collector's possession for decades – and returning them to the supposed-rightful owner?

"_Yeah, I imagine you've made some serious enemies in your life, Serena," _he thinks to himself.

"It's . . . it's . . . it is better this way. For Kevin. For my brother."

Richard Castle doesn't say anything, choosing to keep his thoughts to himself for once. They continue walking, in silence, for another fifty or so yards, when he suddenly stops, grabbing her elbow as he stops.

"Let's turn back," he says. "You were drugged earlier, you know, and you probably shouldn't be exerting yourself very much."

"We're just walking right –"

"Walking, running, whatever. You said the doctor told you to take it easy. That's not what we are doing right now."

With that, he turns them both around and they start walking back, along the walkway, towards the entrance of the park. Within minutes they are passing the park bench where the conversation started, and are walking across the street back to her building.

"Do you mind if I say goodbye here?" she asks. "You're right, I really am tired all of the sudden," and she notices his look of wonderment. "Seriously, it has nothing to do with our conversation. I just feel like laying down."

"Are you sure you are going to be all right?" he asks her.

"I'm fine, Richard, really. Thank you for walking with me, and talking with me."

His hands are in his pocket as he faces her, and smiles.

"No. Thank you."

"For what?" she asks, unable to understand why he would be thankful.

"For sharing the truth with me," he tells her. "It means a lot."

"Yeah, I suspect it does," she says, somewhat knowingly and turns to walk through the doors into the lobby when he stops her.

"Can I ask you one more question?"

"I'm probably going to regret this," she says with a roll of the eyes that is all too familiar too him. He shakes the memory away.

"You said you didn't take the Rock of God."

"Correct."

"But you said that it appears some of your techniques were used by someone who did take the piece," he continues.

"Correct again."

"But I'm sure that you don't have any exclusive moves or traits, right? I mean, there have to be any number of people who might use your same kind of methods . . ."

He lets the sentence dangle. Unfortunately, Serena doesn't take the bait.

"So why you? Why do they suspect you?"

"Because I was one of the last people to see the piece before it disappeared," she tells him. "The people who ensured the piece hired me. So when the piece was put into place, I was there, helping review schematics for the security system."

He nods his head. The answer makes sense. She loves art, and she is an insurance investigator. It follows that the insurance company would want her to review the piece, review the security system, taking all precautions. Then the piece turns up missing? It makes just as much sense that she _would_ be the primary suspect, because she has just admitted that she knew the security system inside out.

"It doesn't look that great, does it?" she says softly.

"No, it doesn't, I won't lie," he tells her. "But there is one thing I have learned in all the time I spent shadowing . . . the detectives at the 12th Precinct," he says, and Serena does not miss the fact that he will not say a certain detective's name. She hides her frown, knowing the pain he must be hiding himself.

"What is that?" she asks.

"That things are rarely, rarely as they seem. The obvious, first choice in a criminal case is hardly ever the right choice in the end. At least not in my experiences. For that reason, and the fact that I just believe you, I know you didn't do it. And I promise you, Serena, you won't spend more unwarranted time in jail. You've missed enough of Kevin's life already."

With that, he turns and walks toward the doors to the parking garage, not looking back as Serena stands, watching him leave. She waits until he is gone and the garage door closes before taking her card out and buzzing herself in.

She thinks about him as she rides the elevator back up to her home on the 5th floor. She hopes that – beyond just being clients – she and Richard Castle can become friends. She could use a real friend. Someone to talk to, someone to confide in. Without the drama and mistrust of her typical male-female relationships.

But first of all, she hopes that she has pegged him correctly, and that he can keep her out of jail.

The elevator bell dings, and the door opens. Serena smiles as she walks into her home.

_**That Same Evening – Back at the Federal HQ Building in Washington, D.C.**_

"You're certain she left – that she actually got on the flight?"

"Positive. I had Davidson follow her from a distance. Went through security and got on the plane. Unless she jumped off while the thing was rolling down the runway, she's headed back to Dakota," Deputy Director Freedman says.

"Good, good. She's not stupid, she will start to put a few things together," Senator Bracken tells him. The more time she spends here in D.C., the more likely it is that she sees or hears something I'd rather her not become privy to – at least not just yet.

"Then why bring her here?" Freedman asks. "Why not assign her in Chicago, or hell, the west coast for that matter?"

"Oh, I want her here, don't mistake that, Tony. I have plans for our special agent. Plans that will allow me to keep a good eye on her. Just make sure she doesn't get anywhere near New York. Not until I get things put into place," he says with a smile that Anthony Freedman hopes never gets aimed at him.

"Until then, make sure her days are limited here in the Capital, Tony. Keep her traveling – give her a few more interesting cases, make her feel a little more appreciated."

"I thought that's what I was for," comments Eric Vaughn. The billionaire has just stepped back into the Deputy Director's office after taking a short bio break. He rubs his hands together, rubbing in the anti-bacterial fluid from the container inside the men's room.

"Patience, Eric, patience," the Senator tells him, smiling. "You will get another crack at the detective, I promise you."

"_Ex_-detective, don't you mean," Freedman corrects.

"Tony," Bracken says, placing a hand gently on the Deputy Director's shoulder, "I don't care what title or position you give her – never, _ever_ forget that Katherine Beckett is, first and foremost, a detective – and a damn good one. One slip-up – one little miscue that we miss – and I promise you this entire operation comes falling down. She's that good."

"Yeah, but you've taken her away from her security blanket," Vaughn says. "She doesn't have her team, and she doesn't have the writer anymore."

"All true, all true," Bracken agrees. "But if I know Katherine Beckett, she is starting to adapt, to re-focus. I underestimated her once," he says, his finger idly and unintentionally rubbing a scar along his face. "Believe me, I will not make that mistake again."

"What about the writer?" asks Freedman.

"He's a private dick now," Vaughn says. A couple of seconds pass before all three men break out in laughter.

"I know, this is just too rich," Vaughn adds a few seconds later, amid the laughter. "A few years tagging along with cops and now he thinks he is one."

"Don't underestimate him either," Bracken says, still chuckling. "The man is imaginative, and he has stones. A combination that we should not overlook."

"You sound like you admire him. Both of them, actually," Freedman says.

"No. But I respect them. Together, they have gotten closer to me than anyone else – ever. That's why we have to keep them apart, keep them distracted – professionally and emotionally," the Senator tells them.

"But what if he starts getting close again – intentionally or not?" Vaughn asks.

"He has a daughter," Bracken says, matter-of-factly.

"Good leverage," Freedman states.

"If need be," Bracken agrees.

"So, what next?" Vaughn asks. "And can we get something to eat? I'm famished."

"Good idea, no threat of us being seen together with her out of the city," Bracken agrees. "For now, let's just stick with the plan," he tells them, gathering up his jacket and putting it on.

"So, I wait until she returns, and then I call her," Vaughn states, gathering and putting on his own jacket as well.

"Yes, just tell her you have something to talk with her about – keep it casual," Bracken tells him.

"She's due back Friday, so maybe Saturday or Sunday will work," Freedman tells them, and with that, all three men nod in agreement and begin walking toward the elevator, when Eric Vaughn suddenly stops and turns to go back into the office.

"Forgot my phone, give me a second, guys."

"No problem, we're right here," Bracken tells him.

Anthony Freedman waits until the billionaire is back in the office before he turns to the Senator, and holds out his hand to shake.

"Thank you for bringing me into this, for trusting me Senator," he tells him. Bracken grabs his hand, and shakes it, then holds on a bit more tightly than necessary.

"No problem, Tony. I like you," he says and both men smile. "I know you won't let me down," he tells him, and for a second or two, a chill runs down the spine of the Federal director.

"Okay, let's go eat," Eric Vaughn states, as he walks out of the office and back toward the elevator, joining the Senator and Deputy Director. "It's been a productive day."


	15. Chapter 15

**The Wonder: Chapter 15**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Same Evening, Now 11:15 p.m. – at Jordan Shaw's Suburban Home in Chicago**_

Kate's eyes are closed, momentarily, as she stretches out on the sofa – her legs extended toward the oversized ottoman where her feet rest. In her hands is a glass of Terra d'Oro moscato. Jordan has introduced this flowery blend to her, and right now she is content to hold the glass under her nostrils, bathing in the peach and apricot scents. She rubs her tongue along her lips, drawing a chuckle from her friend.

"Not bad, is it," Jordan states. It's not a question. "It's my absolute favorite – always changes my mood," the Federal profiler admits, as she sits next to Kate, with roughly eighteen inches between them. She, too, has her feet extended atop the ottoman.

She had let Kate cry it out for the last ten minutes of their drive to Jordan's home. Once there, Tom had thankfully already retired to bed – he has an early surgery in the morning and he and his wife had said their good-night prior to Jordan departing for the airport to pick Kate up. Jenna is also tucked nicely in bed and Kate is looking forward to meeting the young girl in the morning. Long has Kate wondered – even after hearing Jordan's answer – how she does it. How she has managed to juggle family with police work. She knows Jordan is driven – she has to be in order to do what she does. But clearly Jordan has a handle on her personal life. That much slapped Kate Beckett in the face as she took her first steps into the Shaw household. It was warm, cozy and comfortable.

A family lives here. She can feel it. She wonders what it is like.

More, Kate wonders what it is like simply to have a young daughter. Or a son. And she wonders now whether or not she has blown her best opportunity to have such a child with the best dad she knows.

Now, here at Jordan's home, the two women have quickly kicked off their shoes. Jordan has instructed her to make herself comfortable in the den. Now, drinks in hand, Jordan has joined her guest and given her instructions to drink. Happily, Kate has complied.

It's nice to have a girlfriend. Kate allows her mind to wander backwards a bit – she thinks about Lanie Parish, the medical examiner in New York. She and Lanie used to do this, but not very often. Most of their conversations, she now realizes, occurred in the precinct morgue or on the detective floor. She struggles to find a time where the two women just simply sat in one another's home – relaxing, drinking, laughing, crying.

It dawns on her that she never really invited the ME to her home for such a reason. The realization brings a frown to her face, and her shoulder slump. Jordan notices immediately.

"Uh uh uh," she warns her. "Come back to the present, m'lady," she says, and Kate has to smile.

"Sorry, Jordan," Kate admits. "I was just thinking that I don't have this . . . I didn't have this . . . this right here, what we are doing. Outside of Castle, I've never really had this before."

"What? A night chilling with a friend?" Jordan asks.

"Let's just say that I don't have many people with similar shared life experiences," Kate laughs softly.

"Amen to that, sister," Jordan agrees, as she adds, "That's a good thing, by the way. I mean, do you _really_ want others to know the hell you and I know exists out there?"

"Not when you put it like that," Kate agrees.

"Well . . . I put it like that," Jordan says, as she takes a long swallow of the sweet moscato.

"This really is fabulous, Jordan," Kate admits, and she finds herself staring at toes she is now wiggling, for no reason at all.

"And that, _that_ is what you need to do more often, Kate Beckett," Jordan says as she points toward Kate's feet, drawing a confused look from the D.C. fed.

"I'm not following," Kate responds, as she turns her head to gaze at her friend.

"Just sitting here, wiggling your toes, sipping a wine, smelling its fragrance, clearing your mind," Jordan tells her, and Kate nods her head in agreement as she turns and faces the fireplace in front of them. She leans back and closes her eyes, listening to the woman next to her talk.

"_I used to do this a bit,"_ Kate admits to herself, eyes closed.

"So . . . are we ready to break the calm and jump back into the storm for a bit?" Jordan asks her. Kate continues smiling, keeping her eyes closed.

"Sure. It's certainly not going away," Kate says.

"So Kate, let's cut right to the chase, because you're tired, I'm tired, and we have a lot to do tomorrow when we wake up."

Kate again nods in agreement, but keeps her eyes closed. The wine is relaxing, especially after today. She hasn't eaten much, not anything in fact, since her sandwich at lunch, so the wine is hitting her head quite nicely.

"Suppose," Jordan begins, "that this was not me sitting here next to you, with this nice fire going, a nice glass of wine in your hand. Suppose this was not me, but instead was Richard Castle."

That opens Kate's eyes. She doesn't glance at Jordan. She keeps her eyes straight ahead, doing the best she can to keep the illusion. If she glances at her friend, then the mental image of Richard Castle sitting next to her goes away.

"Do you remember his cologne, Kate?" Jordan continues. "Do you remember what he smells like? Do you remember what it feels like to be this close to him?"

Kate smiles, wistfully, as she does in fact suddenly have his scent in her nostrils, so strong in fact, that she glances sideways, ruining the illusion. No matter, it has had its effect.

"Now – tell me what you were thinking, Kate. Tell me what you would say to Castle if he were here, and I were not. What's the first thing you want to say?"

"I'm sorry," she blurts out.

"That's a good start," Jordan says, nodding her head, and she takes a quick sip from her glass before continuing. "So – what exactly are you sorry about?"

"I'm sorry for leaving," Kate says softly, staring down at her glass which is now almost empty. Just another sip, maybe two.

"Keep going, girl – you're sorry for leaving. What else?"

Whether it's the wine or the company, who knows, but for once Kate Beckett is courageous as she tackles the quagmire that is her personal life.

"I'm sorry for only thinking of myself," she says, fighting her emotions that war within her. Her eyes are misting again, and dammit she doesn't want to cry anymore. She's done enough of that for one night, thank you very much. Jordan wisely shuts down, letting the apologies spew from her friend.

"I'm sorry for not thinking about you, about how it made you feel Castle, for not telling you what I was thinking and for not telling you how scared I was getting and for hiding shit from you like I always do when things start getting good and sweet and comfortable and . . .

She pauses, not realizing that she is talking to a man who is not there. Still, her thoughts gather, and rumble out like water rushing downstream toward the massive explosion of the waterfall ahead.

"I always do that, you know. I keep one foot grounded, one foot ready to run. I keep –"

"Why?" Jordan now interrupts. She really wants to just let Kate talk, but now hearing Kate stumble – intentionally or unintentionally upon what Jordan feels to be Kate's albatross – she steps back into the conversation.

"Why would you keep one foot out the door, Kate? With a man who – for, heck, I don't know, what was it? Four years? Three years? Whatever – here is a man who has chased, coddled, cuddled, comforted you, loved you like few men I know. Why be afraid of that?" she asks, then adds, "Unless you don't love him, of course."

"Of course I love him," Kate argues.

"Doesn't look that way from here, Kate."

"You don't understand Jordan – no one does," Kate begins, and then stops.

"Well, enlighten me, will you," Jordan states, as she stands up and walks a few steps to the bar fridge where the rest of the bottle of wine sits. She grabs the bottle, and brings it back to the sofa and tops off both of their drinks as Kate talks.

"You . . . I . . ."

"I'm waiting, Kate," Jordan jokes, tapping her watch with her forefinger, but smiling all the while.

"Jordan, when my mother was murdered –"

"Okay stop right there, Kate," Jordan interrupts. She has been waiting for this line of thought from her friend since earlier today when Kate contacted her and asked if she could fly into town. Knowing where the conversation was going to go, she knew this was coming – and has been ready for it.

"I'm not your shrink, okay, so I will probably handle this little talk of ours differently than a professional counselor would – because like I said, I'm not a counselor. But what I _am_, Kate, is a profiler. And a damn good one," Jordan adds, as she takes a long pull from her glass, as does Kate.

"And don't think, my friend, that I haven't profiled you. In those few days that I spent with you and Castle those two or three years ago, I profiled you, and I profiled Castle," Jordan says, adding quickly, "Don't give me that look! It's what I do, you know this. Surely you don't think I would waltz in and have to work with strangers without assessing who I was working with . . ."

Kate nods, reluctantly. She doesn't like being observed, and the thought of being observed without her knowledge is doubly worse.

"So here is what I know about you, Kate Beckett. You are what I like to call the dangerous oxymoron. You are the most courageous coward I know. You can stare down the barrel of a gun but can't stare into the eyes of someone who loves you, who would die for you."

Kate's mouth hangs agape, and she struggles with her counterpoint, when Jordan's forefinger lands on her lips.

"Not yet. My turn still," Jordan tells her. "You pile up victory after victory, and like everyone else on this planet, you have a few defeats thrown in, hiding in your closet. But instead of locking up and bolting your closet and keeping your defeats where they belong – in your closet, in your past – no, no, no, that's not you, Kate. No, you open the damn door, wide open, letting your defeats whisper in your ear. You win one battle, and then you turn around and pull a defeat out of the closet and try to fight it all over again. You let potential victories pass you by as you content yourself with fighting an unwinnable battle – and you use that unwinnable battle as your excuse for everything – good or bad – that comes your way."

Kate's hands are shaking now, the anger and bile rising in her throat, ready to explode. How dare she talk so casually, so callously about her mother, about her past. She's turning out to be just like everyone else who doesn't understand, who doesn't get it, who doesn't –

"Do you want to meet my mother, Kate?" Jordan says suddenly.

Kate's anger, while still bubbling underneath the surface, subsides ever so slightly at the question, the opportunity posed by her friend. She and Jordan don't talk that often, although recently, they have been trying to do just that. And while Jordan has talked ad nauseam about Tom and Jenna and Jenna's school and how sweet Tom is – she has never spoken about her parents.

"_Probably because she knows how difficult the topic is with me,"_ Kate thinks to herself. She could not be more wrong.

"C'mon," Jordan says, now standing, and holding her hand out to Kate. Kate takes her hand, as Jordan pulls her up from the sofa, and walks her to the fireplace mantle just a few feet in front of the ottoman that recently held their tired feet. She stops, placing her drink on top of the fireplace. She picks up a small urn that has been sitting there. Kate – always observant of her surroundings – had missed this.

"Mom," Jordan begins, "this is my friend, Kate," she says. There are no tears in her eyes. There is no sadness in her voice. Kate can tell this is probably something Jordan does regularly, as she is so comfortable doing this.

"Kate, this is my mother, Janice Blakely."

Kate simply stares at the urn, containing the ashes of her friend's mother, and before she can say anything polite or sincere, Jordan places the urn back on the mantle, and retrieves a second urn.

"Dad, this is my friend, Kate," Jordan says, and this time her voice cracks ever so slightly, but just as quickly she recovers.

"Say hello, Kate, don't be rude," Jordan says suddenly, and Kate finds herself stumbling for words momentarily.

"Hello Mr. . . Blakely, Mrs. Blakely."

"I lost them when I was seventeen years old," Jordan tells her, replacing her father's urn on the mantle. She grabs her drink and walks back to the sofa, falling back into the soft cushions, slightly spilling just a portion of the drink.

"Drunk driver. The boy was sixteen. High school kid. Just got his license a few months earlier. Evidently he had come from a party, and there was a lot of drinking going on," she says, her eyes now some twenty plus years in the past.

"He lost control of the car, swerved across the median into oncoming traffic," she continues, as Kate involuntarily places a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening.

"There are a lot of ways to look at it . . ." she pauses. "But in the end, he took my parents from me," she finishes. "And I hated him for it. I hated the system that put him away for a just a couple of years in juvenile before letting him back out because of his age, and because of his rich parents. I hated that everyone looked at me with sad eyes, and stupid platitudes, thinking that what they were saying was somehow life-changing for me."

Kate nods with personal understanding, now looking at her friend with a fresh new set of eyes.

"It's why I became a profiler. I wanted to know why people do things like he did, why they say the things that people said to me, why people make the choices that they do," she says, emphatically. "It's why you became a cop – I know that – because you were trying to right a wrong, prevent it from happening to someone else, to somehow give you the closure, the peace, the absolution you crave."

Again, Kate finds herself nodding in agreement, now content not to say anything more, not to add anything to the story unfolding before her.

"But I never got that peace, Kate. I never got that closure, that absolution. I don't know if I ever will," she says, and she can see the small fear that creeps into Kate's eyes as well. The thought that this never gets better? That it never goes away? It is beyond unbearable.

"But do you want to know what I _did_ get?"

A few seconds pass before Kate realizes that Jordan is waiting for an answer.

"No – what did you get?"

"A wonderful husband – who helps me search for that peace. A beautiful daughter who makes the lack of closure so much more than just bearable."

Kate stares at her for a few more seconds, letting her friends words settle in.

"You're not the only person who has lost a parent, a loved one Kate. And I'm not going to turn into some damn Hallmark commercial and spout stupid platitudes about how life goes on and crap like that," she says, and Kate can almost – almost feel the bitterness in her friend's voice.

"But what I will say is this. There is someone out there – someone whose reason for being is to be with you. There is someone out there who is uniquely able to help you navigate the rest of your life – to help you to stop driving while looking in the rear view mirror, to help you from crashing."

There are fresh tears in Jordan's eyes now, and Kate realizes that these aren't tears of sadness, or burden, or desperation. They are tears of gratitude.

"For me, his name is Tom. And forgive me – I mean this with all my heart, girl – if I went to the Kate Beckett school of dealing with shit happening, Tom wouldn't be here. And neither would Jenna. And neither would you, because you and I probably wouldn't have met, and therefore wouldn't be having this little talk."

Kate's eyes are misting now as well, as a single tear makes its way down her cheek, followed by another. And another.

"I don't know the right way to handle this kind of stuff, Kate – but I _do_ know the wrong way when I see it, and you, my friend, have written the book on that. You dishonor . . ."

Jordan pauses, just to make sure that this is the word she really wants to use. Seconds later, satisfied, she presses on.

"You dishonor your mother's memory every time you push someone away. You dishonor her legacy – which is you, by the way – every time you reduce her to nothing more than an excuse of why you can't make a simple damn decision."

Jordan pauses now, allowing Kate's widening – and wet – eyes soften with understanding. It takes more than a few seconds, as the battle rages in her eyes, and beyond.

"Your mom – a beautiful woman who brought you into this world, who fought for people she barely knew – that woman is nothing now – she's just an excuse you conveniently pull out of the closet when it suits you. That's my profile of you, Kate. And that's why you can't . . . that's why I will not – I absolutely will not allow you to even mention your mother when I ask you what happened between you and Richard Castle. You dishonor her."

Jordan takes this time to put her drink down, and she walks out of the den, heading toward the guest bathroom. She suspects Kate will be making a trip here soon as well, given that their bottle is darn near empty right now. She sits on the toilet, her eyes closed, saying a silent prayer.

"Please, God, don't let me have screwed her up any more than she already is."

Two minutes later, the profiler walks back into her den, and finds Kate standing at the fireplace, staring at the mantle. Staring at the urns.

Staring at Jordan's parents.

Kate hears – or rather feels Jordan enter the room, and she glances at her friend briefly before returning her attention to the vases in front of her. Certainly, this has not been the conversation she anticipated having with Jordan. But somehow, the conversation, Jordan's admission, Dr. Burke's earlier words – somehow things are crystalizing for her in a new way.

"I've been pretty damn selfish," Kate says softly.

"Yeah," is all Jordan says, as she walks back to the sofa, and sits down, leaning back and lifting up her feet to the ottoman once again.

"I'm sorry, Jordan. I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't," Jordan says just as softly.

"You never said anything," Kate counters, still struggling with this news.

"So, Kate," Jordan says to her, ignoring Kate's words. "I'm asking you again. Why do you live your life, why do you live your relationships with one foot out the door, ready to bolt?"

Kate continues to stare at the vases in front of her, and she feels the warm fire.

"Who lights a fire in July, anyway?" she says aloud, the irony just now hitting her.

"Great deflection," Jordan says. "Answer the question. And remember, your mom has nothing to do with this. Let her rest in peace, for God's sake."

"That's not really fair," Kate says.

"I know. It sucks. Trust me, I know," Jordan says wistfully, but forcefully. "Now answer the question."

Kate considers the question yet again. Her struggle is immense, because – damn Jordan – she is right. Kate's mother has become her convenient escape clause, her get-out-of-jail-free card. And Jordan has just revoked it.

"I guess I just don't want to get hurt."

The answer is stunning in its simplicity. Kate feels the burden pressing down harder than ever before now, and this surprises her. She thinks about Castle momentarily. If he were writing this scene, this is where her admission would have lifted burdens, not strengthened them.

"_No one_ wants to get hurt, Kate."

"I'm just trying to protect myself," Kate responds.

"No matter the cost?" Jordan asks, and the question pulls Kate back toward her, to the sofa.

"You've been through so much, Kate. I know this," Jordan continues. "But if you think that the pain life is going to throw at you is all behind you, then you are kidding yourself. You've been fighting to protect yourself. How is that working out, Kate? How happy are you feeling right now? You've walked away from the man you love. You're in a job you don't like, feeling manipulated by your worst enemy. That – Kate – is the result of your 'Protect Me at all Costs' plan. Don't you think it's time to try something different?"

Kate's head slumps down, along with her shoulders. There are no tears, only a heavy sigh. Jordan sits up, and reaches across and takes both of Kate's hands into her own. She pulls Kate's eyes to her own.

"And by the way, Kate – the order that I listed your current state was not by accident. You've lost the love of your life, you hate your job, and you are being manipulated. Those are three separate and distinct challenges. You have to decide – before anything else – which one you tackle first. And just realize, whichever one you tackle first, you are very likely, very possibly relegating the remaining two as unsolvable – at least for now."

Jordan sees the recognition – finally – in her friend's eyes. It's taken a while – and a few drinks, and a personal admission that Jordan would have rather not shared. But here they are.

"Which of these is most important to you? And don't answer now. Even if you have an answer on the tip of your tongue, you need to go to sleep on it, cry on it, really dwell on it. Because once you decide, once you put whatever it is into motion, there is no going back."

"You had to do this one day, didn't you?" Kate asks her, already knowing the answer.

"Do you think it was easy to put my parents deaths behind me? Knowing that their killer is a free man, sitting in a fancy chair in some high rise, running investments? Knowing that my baby girl never gets to say the words grandma or grandpa to my parents?"

"No, that couldn't have been easy," Kate agrees.

"Damn right, it wasn't," Jordan tells her. "And it hasn't been easy for you either. I know that. But let me tell you, it gets much easier, if that is your goal. If putting it behind you, and embracing the love in front of you is your goal – you'll get there. You'll do it. But that has to be your goal. Like it was mine."

"When did you get so smart, Jordan?" Kate asks, leaning her head forward toward her friend. Jordan releases her hands, and puts an arm around Kate's shoulder, pulling her down toward her.

"Oh Kate, I'm not that smart. I just hang around stupid people," she chuckles, and Kate laughs despite herself as well.

"Just remember one thing, Kate," Jordan says a few seconds later, releasing her and now standing up. It's late, and she wants to cuddle with Tom in bed, even though he is long asleep.

"If it is Castle that you choose – and dear God, woman, I hope that it is – if it is Castle that you choose, then put yourself in his shoes, for once. Don't let the first thing out of your mouth be about you, or about your job, or about Bracken, or about anything else. If he's going to be your focus, make the conversation about him."

With that, the Federal profiler picks up her glass and walks out of the den, toward her room, leaving a very frightened, but enlightened Kate Beckett to stew for the night.

_**Mid-July, A couple of hours earlier on the East Coast, roughly 10:30 p.m. – at Serena's New York Loft**_

Serena Kaye parks her 2012 Mercedes convertible in her assigned parking spot in the parking garage under her building. After Richard Castle had left, she had gone inside and showered, needing to get out of her clothes and get the hospital smell and feeling out of her bones. It was her second change of clothes for the day. The shower helps, thought, and feeling refreshed, she had decided to go out this evening for a bit to eat.

For a moment or two – multiple times – she had considered texting or calling Castle, and asking him to join her. In the end, she decided she needed a little 'me' time – if for no other reason than to create a blueprint for what is happening to her, to figure a few things out.

Someone is framing her, why she does not know. Someone has drugged her, and again, why she does not know. She knows she has made enemies, and this is the most likely way that one of them would attack her. By framing her. So all she needs to do – at least in her mind – is start to identify the list of likely subjects.

The napkin at dinner, however, wasn't nearly large enough to house all the names she had come up with. Instead of a revelatory dinner, this has been a pretty frustrating experience. Enough so that, after dinner, she had decided to drive, top down, to clear her head.

She had made it upstate to Valhalla before stopping at a local grocery store to grab a bottle of water, and then start the 45-minute or so trek back to the city.

So now, she is home and walking through the parking garage. She reaches the elevator and stops, searching her purse for her card key. Finally finding it, she slides it at the elevator door. Twenty seconds later, the elevator arrives and opens and she steps in, sliding her key again and punching the 5th floor. She can hardly wait to get into her loft, into her bedroom, into her bed.

The elevator door slides open, and she takes two steps off, and into the foyer of her loft when the moon shining through the front window glistens off something to her right. Her first thought is one of an intruder, with a knife or a gun. Given her day today, that doesn't seem too far-fetched.

She is relieved to see no one there, but when she sees the object on the ground, she decides that perhaps an intruder would have been the better option. Her heart racing, she quickly steps toward the wall, grabbing ahold of it to keep herself upright. She closes her eyes for a moment, before bending down to inspect the stolen Rock of God sculpture that sits in her foyer.

In her home.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Wonder: Chapter 16**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Still the same evening in Mid-July, now 11:05 p.m. – at Serena's New York Loft**_

"So, no one was here when . . . whatever happened, happened? That's your story?"

Detective Gary Turner stands next to Serena Kaye, his notepad in hand taking notes as he watches Officer Charlie Gomez continue to dust for prints. Gomez has dusted the piece ad nauseam, and now is focused on different areas of the foyer. Turner himself has taken dozens of pictures and is now turning his focus to Serena.

"No," Serena answers him. She's tired, and starting to get cranky. When she rode the elevator up to her floor, just over half an hour ago, she was already decompressing. She could already taste the glass of wine, feel her shoes coming off and her toes digging into the plush carpet of the den. Two steps into her foyer changed all of that.

"No," she repeats, noticing the questioning look from Detective Turner. "This is my brother's house, and he is away. He and his wife and child left this afternoon for a few days in the Bahamas."

Turner drops his arms by his side, no longer writing. Instead, he shares an incredulous look with the blonde insurance investigator who is already a suspect for the theft of the very work of art that is now sitting on the floor next to them.

"Let me get this straight. You mean to tell me," he says, chuckling, and then pauses, trying to compose himself. Unsuccessfully. He continues to laugh as he speaks.

"You're going to stand here and tell me that this piece of art – that you are under suspicion for the theft of said work of art, by the way – this stolen piece of art _just miraculously happens_ to show up in your brother's home . . . while he is away . . . just before you walk in the door. Is that what you want me to write down, Ms. Kaye?"

When he says it like that, she realizes that this is only going to make her look even worse, more guilty than ever. Whoever is setting her up is a pro.

"I live here, in my brother's home, detective. You can look it up in the records. His name is Roland Kaye. I was just coming home from a day and evening out, and this is what I found when I got home."

"_The_ Roland Kaye?" he asks, now putting the last name together with the woman in front of him. She nods her head. Undeterred, he continues.

"That's pretty convenient, you have to admit," Turner comments, still unconvinced. "Let's try this again," he states.

"While no one is here - meaning no one can collaborate your story - the Rock of God just shows up."

"Yes," says Serena, now getting agitated.

"While you were gone, it shows up in the house of one of the main suspects in the case," he says, trying to say it a different way. Trying to see if he can trip this woman up.

"I know this doesn't look good," Serena offers.

"Ya think?" Gomez says from roughly ten feet away, still dusting for prints.

"Look," Serena says, testily, "I'm telling you what happened. I got home, opened the door and there it was. No one is less happy about this than I am, trust me."

"Like I said, that's pretty convenient," Turner tells her, now facing her and forcing eye contact. "I have a different idea, though, and I think mine sounds more plausible. Let me try it out on you."

She knows where this is going – nowhere good – and so she takes a step backward, now leaning against the wall in the foyer area. She rests her head against the wall, closing her eyes.

"You live here with your brother – which we _will_ check out, by the way – and you realize that he and his family are leaving town. You've already taken the piece, but the heist went sour and you didn't get away clean, like you have in the past."

Turner notices the hitch in Serena's breathing as he says these last few words. She doesn't open her eyes, and it's such a subtle change – but he sees it, and smiles. Bringing up her past, which he is very familiar with, might be what will trip her up.

"_She's good,"_ he admits to himself. _"I'm better."_

"And so now, here you are, a suspect for what could have been the heist of the century, but you slipped up. And now you are a suspect. So you wait until your brother and his family go out of town, and as soon as they are gone, you place the Rock here in your foyer, and wait a few hours, and then call the police. What – were you planning on returning it and then changed your mind? Did you come up with a better plan?"

"Look, you're not listening," Serena says, her eyes now open and showing a lot of fight left. Suddenly, the elevator bell dings, drawing the attention of all three people in the foyer. The door opens, and out steps Richard Castle.

"The officer downstairs had your security buzz me in and let me up here," Castle tells Serena, walking directly to her. "I came as soon as I got your text," he continues and nods at the officer and detective. "Hello detective, officer."

"Your books – and your reputation with the 12th – precede you, Mr. Castle," Detective Turner says in greeting, his hand extended. Castle shakes the hand offered, and offers a quick salute to Officer Gomez. "I hear you are a private investigator now?"

"Good news travels fast," Castle says, smiling.

"You tell me, is this good news?" Turner asks. "Because if you are here to defend the pretty lady here, well then I'm not sure you and I are going to get along all that well, Mr. Castle."

"So be it," Castle says, nodding his head, still friendly. Turning back to Serena, he points to the sculpture sitting on the floor.

"So this is it?" he asks.

"This is it," she says, now more decidedly upbeat because of Castle's return to her home.

Her brother's home . . . which is actually her home. She recalls Turner's statement that he will check the papers to ensure that this is her brother's home, and smiles to herself at her good fortune. Her generous act of charity for her brother may actually benefit her this time, for once.

"How did it get here?" Castle asks her.

"Your guess is as good as mine," she responds, glancing at Detective Turner, who simply frowns.

"The best guess," Turner answers to Castle, "is that she took the sculpture from the museum, and can't figure out a way to return it, and so she plants it here in her foyer and calls the good guys."

Castle has to admit that this makes sense. He glances back to Serena.

"When did you discover it? And where is Roland, by the way?" he asks, glancing around.

"I went out to get some air, got a bite to eat and then drove upstate," she tells him, and Turner once again rolls his eyes.

"When I came home, this is what I found," she says, pointing to the sculpture. "Obviously, someone is trying to frame me."

"What about Roland, or Ruth? Didn't they hear –"

"They are both gone. Kevin also," she responds. "They took off this afternoon for the Bahamas. A little summer break for a few days. For Kevin."

"Why didn't you join them?" Castle asks, knowing that it is most likely that Serena would have loved to have joined them with her son.

"Family time – just the three of them," she says, doing her best to hide the sadness rising inside. For the detective and the officer, who know nothing about her family secret – she is successful. For Castle, however, not so much. He sees the sadness in her eyes, and his heart goes out to her. He can't imagine a life without Alexis, a life pretending Alexis is not his. A life where Alexis takes family vacations without him.

"So no one was here when this happened," Castle says. He is not asking a question, but rather, making a statement as he talks out loud.

"You're not falling for this are you, Castle?" Turner asks with a surprised tone.

"Actually, I think I believe the lady," Castle offers – and there is something about his voice that gives Serena her first bit of real hope.

"_What has he discovered?"_ she wonders.

For Richard Castle, it has just been a small matter of detective logic, combined with a bit of an author's artistic license. He believed – this morning – that Serena was innocent. Years of working with Kate Beckett and the boys of the 12th have honed his instinct for this type of matter. And there is nothing about Serena that tells him she is guilty. Yes, she has stolen in the past, and he understands her reasoning for those repatriations, even if he does not agree with them.

Stealing the Rock of God, however, is no Robin Hood-type of gesture. There is no reason for such a theft except for pure reason of avarice. Someone is out to make a buck. It's that simple. And that is not Serena's motive, nor her style. If she had taken it, it would show up again at someone's home, or another museum or collector. It would not show up in _her_ home. Not if she took it originally. Further, if she had taken it for reasons of simple greed? Well, she is just too good to leave careless clues that would point to her.

The only other alternative, if she didn't take it, is that she is being framed. The piece showing up in her home is the final bit of evidence that – in his mind – points to a framing as the logical reason behind the theft. But that leaves another question? Who? This one is not so easy, because Serena has made more than a few enemies in her day. Enough to put her in prison on trumped up charges in the past, and certainly enough to frame her today.

"Arrest her, or continue collecting your evidence and leave, Detective Turner," he suddenly says. "Not trying to be rude – you know I am a huge supporter of New York's Finest. But it's late, and trust me, this lady has had a hell of a day. If there's sufficient evidence – take her in. I will pay the bail. If not, let's wrap this up," he concludes.

Detective Turner considers the scene in front of him for a moment, and before he can speak, Castle makes up his mind for him.

"She won't go anywhere, gentlemen – you have my word. She will be right here if you need her," Castle says.

Turner nods his head, and returns to Officer Gomez, where he takes a few more photos and writes notes in his notebook while Gomez finishes his work. Ten minutes later, the duo departs, getting on the elevator with the stolen work of art. Castle watches as Detective Turner holds the piece in both hands. Suddenly, Castle yells out, jogging to the elevator.

"Hold on, Detective! Stop!"

Both men exit the elevator as Castle walks toward them, staring at the sculpture. It is an oddity, the Rock of God. Some consider it a painting, while others consider it a sculpture. In truth, it is a slab of rock on which Da Vinci painted a scene of the creation of the earth. It is called the Rock of God because it depicts God taking a formless piece of rock and molding, crafting the earth. Watching Detective Turner pick the piece up and carry it into the elevator is the final straw for Castle that proves his theory – or at a minimum, tells him he is on the right track.

Castle holds his hands out toward the work of art.

"May I?" he asks.

Turner exchanges glances with Castle and a Serena, who clearly has no idea what Castle is doing. Seconds later, he hands the painting / sculpture to Castle, who seems to slightly shake the painting in his massive hands, before smiling and dropping the piece to the ground, where it shatters into five or six large pieces and a few small nuggets.

Serena screams out loud, while Detective Turner and Officer Gomez exchange expletives, before Castle can quiet them.

"Gentlemen, Serena," he says calmly. "It's a forgery. It's fake."

"Holy cow," Turner exclaims as he bends down to inspect the pieces. Immediately he notices the broken specs of paint, indicating a recent painting or re-touching.

"How did you know?" Turner asks.

"Yes, Castle. How _did_ you know?" a surprised Serena Kaye wants to know.

Castle smiles, pleased with his finding, pleased that his thought process is proving true, so far.

"After I left you this afternoon, Serena, I went home and did a little homework. I googled the Rock of God, wanting to learn a little about it. Just my curious nature," he adds, smiling.

"One of the things I found out was that it is estimated to be over 200 pounds. As soon as I read that, I knew right away that Serena didn't take it – or if she did take it, then she had some help."

He turns to look at Serena as he continues. "No offense, Serena, but those arms don't look like they can lift 200 pounds very easily."

"None taken," the woman smirks, fighting a smile that threatens to break into full laughter at his deduction. Castle then turns back to Detective Turner, and continues.

"When I watched you easily lift the piece and carry it into the elevator, I immediately knew that you were carrying a fake, a forgery, because – again, no offense to you, detective – but I'm just not sure how many people there are who can so effortlessly snatch and carry two hundred pounds and walk around with it."

The detective simply smiles and nods his head, and then quickly asks the question that is on Castle's mind.

"So why would someone plant a fake here in Ms. Kaye's home –"

"My _brother's_ home," she corrects him.

"Correction. Why would someone plant a fake here in Ms. Kaye's brother's home, knowing that once it was taken back to the museum, they would know it to be a fake?"

"That's the same question I am asking myself, Detective Turner," Castle gives him. He wants to re-establish a working relationship here, and fears that his forthright nature a few minutes ago may have damaged that.

Turner considers Serena one more time, wondering what she would possibly have to gain by pulling such a stunt. Deciding that it is too late in the evening, he opts to simply bring the forgery – or the pieces of the forgery – back to the 9th Precinct. The how's and why's can wait until the morning.

"I believe we will take our leave now, Mr. Castle," he says, picking up the pieces as Officer Gomez joins him. "I trust you to be a man of your word regarding Ms. Kaye's willingness to stay put."

"You have no worries there, detective," Serena answers for both of them, and Castle merely nods. He seems far away now, once again deep in thought, as he walks back toward the living areas of the loft, away from the foyer. These gentlemen can see themselves out just fine.

"Minutes later they are gone, leaving Castle and Serena alone in her loft home.

"Thank you," she says quietly, after a few seconds. She has joined him in the den – where they were earlier today. Castle sits on the sofa, quiet and introspective. He knows she is innocent. He knows this without a doubt. That – in his mind – leaves two possibilities. Someone is trying to hurt Serena, or someone is making a play for money. He is starting to lean towards the latter.

"Where are you, Richard?" she says, trying to get his attention – get him talking.

"This isn't how an enemy would hurt you, Serena," he says softly after a few more seconds of silence. "When I said that I went home and did a little homework, that homework was not limited to educating myself on the Rock of God," he tells her. He waits the necessary seconds for her to realize exactly what he means.

"You googled _me_," she says, just as softly.

"I had to," he tells her, and he holds eye contact with her, gazing deeply into her eyes, hoping she will see the truth there and understand. "Serena, let's just say that people have not exactly been forthright and honest with me lately," he tells her. "People who I have trusted implicitly. So please understand, if I am going to help you, if we are going to be friends at all, I had to know a few things."

She says nothing, simply staring at him with large, beautiful eyes.

"Forgive me. I am just not that trusting right now," he finally says, and she sees the honesty in his eyes and hears them in his voice. She finally nods her head, but still not smiling.

"Anyway, as I said, this is not how I would hurt you if I were trying to get back at you for some reason, Serena. You've already been in jail. I'd want to do something new. I'd attack you where it hurts," he says, and he watches her beautiful saucers grow even larger as realization sets in.

"Kevin," she says softly, and is saddened when she sees him nod his head.

"Someone whom you have truly made an enemy of would take the time to find out as much as he could about you," he tells her. He has now turned to face her as she sits next to him – not too closely – on the couch.

"And someone who truly wanted to get back at you would have found out about Kevin," he tells her, scratching his arm and then rubbing both arms.

Castle himself – after getting home – had jumped online, as he had said. He had, indeed, googled the Rock of God. And then he had googled Serena Kaye. Less than half an hour of google searches and some logical extrapolations easily confirmed Serena's paternity story regarding Kevin.

According to the public records that he had viewed, Serena gave birth in London to a baby boy, who died within hours of birth. Two weeks later, the papers were calling it karma, providence, good fortune – you name it - as Serena was declared guilty of obstruction of justice, and received a five year sentence. So as far as the public knew, Serena Kaye gave birth to a child who died just weeks before she was sentenced to jail. Fourteen months later, she was released early.

Serena, however, as she had admitted to Castle, was expecting the sentence, and already had made arrangements for her baby to be taken care of by Roland and Ruth. What she has not told him was that she had paid a very handsome sum of money to hospital personnel to document the 'death' of the baby and the subsequent transference of the baby to her brother Roland.

Upon Serena's incarceration, Ruth miscarried. Desperate for a new start, and as part of the agreed upon plan to maintain the illusion that they were a couple with a small child, the two immediately left for the United States, settling in upper north Texas near the Oklahoma border. They rented a small home on four acres, allowing little Kevin to reach a year old before moving to Austin.

The public records, however, do not show the story quite like this. According to his internet findings, the public version shows no awareness of Ruth's miscarriage. The records show that Roland and Ruth Kaye came to America with their young infant son, Kevin, and Roland launched his first U.S.-based start-up in Austin, selling it two and a half years later and moving to New York.

There was no hint, no rumble, no insinuation anywhere in his search findings that even alluded to the possibility of Serena's deception, of the possibility of Kevin being her son. However, Castle realized that if someone began their internet searches with the notion already in their mind of the switched paternity of Kevin Kaye – well there is just enough there to wet someone's appetite.

"There is nothing on the internet that would cause someone to suspect Kevin is yours," he finally tells her. "But if someone _goes into it_ thinking along those lines – well, Serena, if it confirmed it for me, it would for someone else also."

Serena remains quiet, taking in this new information. For her, it is the worst case scenario. Castle is right – she has made enemies. One of those enemies put her in jail. And those enemies would absolutely take out their issues with Serena by using her son. If they knew . . .

"So that fact that someone is not attacking Kevin, is not using Kevin against you – that tells me that this isn't something personal against you from someone who has it in for you," he says, smiling, trying to bring some light and confidence into the equation for the woman.

"It tells me that this is a money grab – someone grabbed the piece and is going to sell it. What I don't get, what I don't understand yet is why –"

"Someone would bring a forgery here," she finishes for him. She has been stuck on this for the past few minutes since Castle's dramatic reveal.

"What did they gain?" he wonders aloud. Neither of them have an answer for this just yet, when Castle glances down at his watch.

"Almost midnight," he says, and suddenly he feels the entire day wash across him. He is beyond tired.

'You should probably go," she tells him, standing up.

"Agree. And you're coming with me," he tells her as he joins her in standing, stretching tired legs and stifling a yawn. He recognizes that he is going downhill quickly now.

"I don't think so," Serena begins to argue, but Castle cuts her off quickly.

"Serena – first of all – I am pretty darn tired and it's been a long day. Go pack a bag with clothes for a couple of days."

"Richard Castle, I am not –"

"Second," he interrupts her, "in case you forgot, you were drugged outside my office this morning."

This shuts her up, as she considers his logic as he lays his case out for her. Someone _is_ after her. And someone _is_ framing her. Still, she has to be careful. It wouldn't be the first time that a charming man lured her, under admirable pretenses – into his lair. She glances over at a picture of Kevin, recalling one such charmer.

"Third . . ."

"_Geesh, he is still talking,"_ she thinks to herself. _"There's more?"_

"Third, someone has managed to get into your home – into your highly secure home, I might add, and drop a fake piece of art off without alerting the downstairs security or activating your security alarm" he tells her, and now he has her full attention.

"So – go get some clothes, and let's get out of here. The safest place for you right now is at my place. And since I have taken your case, I could easily be collateral damage for someone trying to get to you. If that is the case, I'd prefer to meet someone on my turf, not yours."

"Fine," she manages to say, as she quickly walks out of the den and down the hall, walking up a spiral staircase to her bedroom.

Castle turns and begins to inspect more pictures that adorn the tables, shelves and walls in the den. He makes a mental note to tell Serena to throw more pictures of Kevin with his aunt and uncle in them. It's a mistake on her part that surprises him, until he once again considers Alexis. Yeah, he would have pictures of her plastered everywhere, and he would be in as many of the pictures as he could, deception be damned.

A few minutes later, Serena returns with a small carry-on suitcase, wheeling it behind her. She stops at the den entrance, waiting for Castle to leave the pictures.

Minutes later they are walking through the garage, when she pulls out her remote car keys and hits the door-open button, hearing the car alarm ding.

"No," he tells her suddenly, taking her keys away and clicking her remote and locking her car once again. "If someone is following you – and so far we have an abundance of evidence to support that, they could easily track you in your car."

She nods in agreement, falling back in alongside him as they walk down the ramp to his car parked in front of the building in the loading zone. A minute later the Ferrari has pulled away from the curb with two quiet passengers, speeding towards Castle's loft.

"Thank you," she tells him again after they have been driving for a few minutes and are stopped at an intersection waiting for the light to turn green.

"No problem – the pleasure is mine," he tells her.

"Not too much pleasure, I trust," she tells him, and she quickly regrets the words. Like him, she is not that trusting of people in general, and even less so right now. Even the first 'date' – if you could call it that – with Richard Castle almost two years ago wasn't exactly an honest event. But truth be told, she feels she is in a somewhat vulnerable position. One, she is very grateful to and for the man who sits next to her. Second, she has always thought him handsome, always been attracted to him. Third, there is nothing she has seen or learned about him that raises any alerts. And now she is going to his home – for the night, and probably longer.

Still, he has done nothing but be a gentleman, and so her veiled warning doesn't sit well with her.

"Believe me, Serena," he tells her, "my intentions are pure. You've got enough problems as it is, and trust me, so do I. It's going to be a long time before I go down that road again."

The two drive in silence for another minute, before Serena can hold her tongue no longer.

"That bad, eh?" she says, staring at him.

"That bad," he responds, eyeing her carefully for a couple of seconds before returning his gaze, and attention, to the road ahead.

_**Still the same 'evening' in Mid-July, now 1 a. the morning**_

Hands open the laptop computer that sits on the table. Moving the mouse, a hand soon open a web page that depicts a map of New York City. Seeing the red blinking dot, the user zooms in closer. Smiling, and satisfied that Serena Kaye's car is still parked in her garage at her loft, the user mistakenly assumes that Serena has remained home for the evening.

The hands close the web page, and turn off the computer, closing the lid.


	17. Chapter 17

**The Wonder: Chapter 17**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Mid-July, Next Morning, 7:05 a.m. – at Jordan Shaw's Suburban Home in Chicago**_

"How did you sleep?" Jordan asks, as she peels another orange, dropping the fruit into the juicer. "I have cinnamon biscuits in the oven," she adds, pointing upstairs. "Jenna's favorite breakfast."

"I'm good, I'm good, thanks Jordan," Kate responds. She wears blue jeans, a soft blue blouse and light brown sandals. Her hair is back in a ponytail, and Jordan cannot keep the chuckle out of her voice or the smile off her face.

"What's so funny?" Kate asks.

"Oh, I'm just not used to seeing the intimidating Kate Beckett in sandals and a pony tail," she remarks, still smiling.

"Well, you don't exactly look like one of the nations' top criminal profilers right now either," Kate laughs. Jordan wears white capris with a patterned sleeveless blouse with white and green horizontal stripes. She, too, has her hair pulled back as well, and she is barefoot. A fact that she sees Kate has noticed, as the D.C. agent glances downward at Jordan's feet.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Jordan kids, and both women smile.

"How long before Jenna is awake?" Kate asks. "I'm anxious to finally meet her."

"Probably another hour, maybe hour and a half. It's the summer, no school, no reason to wake up early," Jordan tells her.

"Those were the days, weren't they . . ." Kate's voice dies off, recalling her younger years from long ago. The two women continue in silence for a moment, Kate grabbing a couple of glasses after opening a couple of cabinets, while Jordan continues preparing the homemade orange juice.

"Are we good?" Jordan asks her, after a few seconds, having to raise her voice over the blender that is making their morning breakfast. "After last night, I mean."

"Oh gosh yes, Jordan. Last night was . . . in fact, the last couple of days have been very painful, very hard, and . . . and very insightful," Kate tells her. "Between conversations with you and Dr. Burke back in New York, well . . ."

"You mentioned him. He's helping?"

"More than I could have imagined," Kate responds. "The sad thing is – I thought I had made good progress, I thought I was where I needed to be. And in just a few short weeks, I blew everything up – and didn't even realize it."

"Those are the worst explosions," Jordan agrees, now pouring the juice into the two tall glasses, and Kate moves forward to the island to grab hers, and sits on one of the bar stools at the island. Jordan turns, and opens the oven, taking out the cinnamon biscuits, and a new vibrant smell engulfs the kitchen as she generously applies butter atop each one.

"Wow," Kate says.

"I know, right? One little sniff and you kind of forget everything else for a few seconds," Jordan adds, laughing. C'mon, let's eat while we talk.

"Tom's gone already?" Kate asks, looking around.

"Oh yeah, he left around 5:30. Early surgery this morning, but he hopes to be back before you head back."

"I hope so. I'd love to meet him."

"He's looking forward to that, also. I don't . . . I don't have many friends outside of James and Wanda and a few others. And they are all at work. So he is probably more curious about you than anything else."

"Hard to do – to make friends," Kate agrees, absently, as she stuffs a bite of the biscuit in her mouth. She cannot contain the murmur of satisfaction that literally drips from her lips.

"Oh my God, Jordan," she says, her voice falling off, as something wonderful erupts in her mouth. "What is in this?"

"It's an old Georgia recipe, from my grandmother, when I was younger," Jordan smiles. Kate nods her head, knowing that she and the FBI profiler have far more in common that she ever thought. She would have never guessed that Jordan Shaw's parental background mirrored her own, only doubly worse because she lost both parents in one instant. Yet here she sits, in the woman's suburban home, a young daughter upstairs, a wonderful husband out at work. It's the life that Kate Beckett always dreamed she would have, but never believed the dream. Even when she was with Richard Castle, she never really, truly believed in the happily-ever-after that she knows he sought, and that Jordan has found.

Jordan, it seems, can almost read her thoughts, knowing the dark, cloudy place her friend has moved back to in just these last few seconds, which provokes her to ask an interesting question.

"How often does she die?" Jordan asks softly, taking a bite of one of the biscuits herself. Kate's eyes grow large and luminous, and Jordan can see the emotions at war inside them. She has been there herself, many times in the past. Kate cannot find the words to answer, and it does not surprise Jordan. It is not an easy question to ask, and truth be told, without Jordan's equally horrific past, it is not a question that is even fair to ask. However, Jordan knows that her past gives her somewhat of a pass, and so she presses on.

"Do you bury her mother every week? Do you relive that horror every day?" Jordan asks, not taking her eyes off her friend. "There is nothing – nothing in the world like that phone call out of the blue," she says, and Kate nods her head absent-mindedly, lost in the words she is hearing.

"We are all just one phone call away from having our world's turned upside down," Jordan finally finishes.

"Most people don't realize that," Kate says softly, absently taking another bite.

"They go through life," Jordan agrees, "never really appreciating that mother, or that father. Never as thankful as they should be for that child. That husband, that best friend."

"That lover," Kate says softly, and now it is Jordan's turn to nod. She can only imagine what last night was like for Kate Beckett, and is a surprise to her that the woman slept as well as she has indicated. Of course she could be lying, just keeping it to herself, but Jordan suspects otherwise. After the few conversations they have had over the past month, and after last night's conversation – these two don't really have the time, or the inclination, to hide behind secrets and lies and mistruths.

"So, how often, Kate?" Jordan asks again.

"Why do you ask?" Kate wonders aloud to her friend, genuinely curious why her answer to this line of questioning is important. It's in the past, it happened, and she is dealing with it as best she can.

"Why is it important, Jordan?"

"Only because I wonder how you ever hope to get over your mother's death, to move beyond it and live a good life," Jordan begins, "when you have turned that horrific event into a crutch that you need to get you through every day. I wonder because I don't know if that ring that is around your neck is a trophy you treasure, or a miniature tombstone you grieve over."

That brings Kate's eyes up to hers, and there is no anger, no fury there. Only resignation.

"I know, because for years, those two urns back in my den? Those two were tombstones. Whatever room they occupied became a cemetery, a place of mourning," Jordan admits. "That's hard to get over."

"How did_ you_ do it?" Kate asks her. "How did you move past it?"

"Not by myself, I can promise you that," Jordan responds, taking a bite out of her second biscuit. "I came to the conclusion fairly early on that there were not going to be a lot of people who could understand what I was going through. So I let them off the hook. I allowed myself have fun – think of it like this - I gave my friends permission to have fun around me."

She takes a quick drink from her glass, licking her lips and putting another knife of butter on the biscuit before continuing.

"One day, in college, a friend walked into my apartment and saw mom and dad sitting on the nightstand in my bedroom, and –"

Kate fights – with great difficulty – as she chokes on her biscuit which has found its way down the wrong path as she visualizes two vases, two urns with ashes sitting in a young Jordan's apartment.

"You had their ashes next to you in bed?" Kate asks incredulously, finding the image a bit hard to believe.

"Look who's talking – you wear the equivalent of that around your neck," Jordan responds quickly, with a hint of a smile, forcing Kate to reconsider her position.

"Anyway, Tom – my friend in my bedroom was Tom – he refused to make out with me in the bedroom. He said he couldn't do it with my mom and dad watching," Jordan says, as both women break into laughter again. Kate slaps the top of the island as she recovers from a giggle fit.

"Oh that's too rich," she tells the FBI profiler, who only nods in laughter as she continues.

"Yeah, it was," she chuckles. "But at the same time, it did get me thinking. I mean, who in the world wants their parents in their bedroom, for God's sake," and both women continue laughing. That night, I realized that keeping the vases there was, at a minimum a bit unhealthy, and worst case, it was . . . it was –"

"Creepy!" Kate burst out, incurring another laughing fit between the women. After a few more seconds of laughter, Jordan finally takes another bite of her biscuit and offers a bit of introspection for her friend.

"So that night, Tom picked up each vase, one at a time, and walked them into my tinier-than-you-could-imagine living room, and placed them on the floor next to the even tinier fireplace. He put one on either side. Then he did something that changed me forever."

"What?" Kate asks.

"He talked to them," Jordan says, her smile beautiful and genuine as she recalls the memory as if it just occurred last night. "He told them to continue watching over me, and that they could do a better job if they were watching the front door."

She watches Kate for a couple of seconds, waiting for the reaction – which finally comes as Kate burst into laughter once again.

"I know, I know – that was my reaction," Jordan laughs. "But then, the greater truth of the matter hit me. I had turned my parents into a circus show. The notion that they had to sleep in my room with me – I mean, really – how healthy is that."

She swallows the last bit of her second biscuit, and grabs a third.

"One more," she chuckles. "Don't judge me, girl," and both women smile as Jordan continues.

"From that day on, for some reason, glancing at those urns wasn't the despondent, demoralizing, horrifically sad event that it always was. That next morning, I walked out into the living room, glanced over at the two urns, and Kate, for the first time, I said 'hi mom, hi dad,' with a wave and a smile, and I walked on. From that moment on, they were no longer trophies, and they were no longer tombstones either."

"That was a trick question then," Kate finally realizes, shaking her head and slugging Jordan softly in the arm.

"The way I moved on?" she questions for Kate, allowing a few extra seconds to pass for her friend to hang onto.

"I – let – them – go," she finally says, and for the first time in her adult life, Kate Beckett finally understands. Jordan smiles as she recognizes the tears of relief moistening Kate's eyes, as her friend fights back a sniffle.

"Those vases, those urns – they aren't trophies anymore. And they aren't tombstones either. They are simply my version of a family photo album, or a DVD with old family moments captured. They are just memories now – good ones."

"Even today?"

"Even today."

"And you never have flashbacks?" Kate asks.

"Sometimes," Jordan gives her. "I won't lie."

"Then what?"

"Then I glance over at Tom," Jordan says softly, with a large smile. "Or I take a gander at Jenna. That's all it takes."

Kate is still for a moment, but then nods her head, now realizing more than ever exactly what she has walked away from. What she has given up.

"That's how you do it, isn't it," Kate finally says.

"Tell me," Jordan says, expectantly, hopefully, wanting so badly for the truth to click within her friend.

"You had someone to cling to that was most important to you," Kate says, pausing. Jordan finishes it for her.

"Instead of some _thing_," Jordan says softly.

Kate nods her head knowingly now, and it is a sad, sad smile that adorns her face.

"Some _one_, instead of a vase, or an urn, or a ring, or a bullet . . . or a job," Jordan finally says, and the last item on her list causes Kate to grimace, as Jordan knew it would.

Both women are silent for the next few moments. The only sound in the kitchen is one of chewing, slurping and swallowing. After a few moments, Jordan reaches over and grabs Kate's hand. Kate willingly allows it, squeezing hard, and smiling.

"We have something else to talk about too, you know," Jordan says, giving her friend an emotional reprieve for now. They still have hours to spend together today – they will have plenty of time to come back to Kate's past. Right now, they need talk about Kate's present – and how to change it. Jordan is the first to speak.

"Let's talk about Bracken," she says, and Kate's face visibly changes. She is very much aware that Jordan has picked this moment to change the subject in order to give Kate a moment or three to recover, to recoup her emotions. She nods, gratefully.

"Where do you want to start?" Kate asks her.

"Let's start with what I said last night," Jordan says. "Your senator has aspirations for the White House, and he is building his war chest for a campaign," she says, reminding Kate of her words last night.

"You said that he isn't taking any monies from the normal sources," Kate adds.

"No big fund-raisers, no phone calls, no lobbyists. So either some very, very wealthy people are passing money to him under the table . . ."

"Not likely," Kate offers. They will want the notoriety, the publicity.

"Correct," Jordan agrees. "That leaves the more unsavory means."

"Most likely drugs, or money laundering," Kate offers. "Or both," she says as Jordan nods.

"But here is the more interesting question. I thought about this last night, amongst all of the other little jewels you gave me to think about," Kate says, drawing a smile from her friend.

"If this is drugs or money laundering, and it is somehow being funneled into Bracken's political account, as we suspect . . . then who in New York would align themselves with Bracken? I mean, the type of people who would be willing – and able – to do something like this are also the type of people who know what they are dealing with in Bracken."

Jordan nods in agreement, as she stands up and begins to clear their dishes and glasses off the island. Kate stands with her, opening the dishwasher. She turns and grabs the blender and dumps the tiny bit of excess juice and pulp into the sink, then turns on the water and washes the remains out before loading the glass container into the dishwasher.

"You're right," Jordan begins, as she rinses out their drinking glasses and begins loading them behind Kate. "While Bracken's behavior might be unknown to the public at large – and probably the police as well – the same cannot be said for the people he uses. They know what he is capable of because they are his partners. They understand exactly what they are dealing with – and these people usually don't keep secrets from one another. They talk amongst themselves."

"So these are people who know that Senator Bracken can – and likely _will_ – turn on them at some point, once they are no longer of any use to him," Kate says. "At that time they become an open-ended liability . . . someone who can talk. Someone who can hurt him."

"So your question is the right one," Jordan agrees. "Who would be willing to partner with such a man? Who would think they would be able to take care of themselves? Who is the type of person who wouldn't fear a totally corrupted murderer in the White House?"

Kate's mental rolodex begins to flip, one by one, as she reviews something of a rogues gallery of villains she has faced in the past few years while in New York. Chances are, the person that they seek is someone she has already encountered during her tenure as a detective for the 12th Precinct.

Her mind initially stops with the Westies, and one Finn Rourke. She immediately rules them out, however.

"They don't abide drug runners in their territory. Don't do drugs in general, for that matter," she recalls out loud. "One of Rourke's rules," she remembers from personal experience. Thinking of Rourke, however, takes her mind to Dick Coonan. She can't help it. She ran into Coonan during that same case with Rourke. Dick Coonan, who killed his own brother in order to protect his heroin trafficking business.

Dick Coonan, the man who killed her mother.

"Can't be him either," she says to Jordan. "I shot him dead in the precinct, almost four years ago."

She then considers Vulcan Simmons, and Jordan notices how she spits the name out. "Simmons ran the drug business in Washington Heights, dating back to my mother's time," she tells Jordan. "He and I had a run-in," she understates. She immediately decides that Simmons very well could be the type they seek. Nothing has ever stuck to the man, despite many police efforts to do so. Further, Simmons stood in the precinct among the lions, showing no fear. In fact, he had incited Kate Beckett to lose control and attack him.

"Not my finest hour, by a longshot, Jordan," she admits.

Jordan jots down the name, and scribbles a note in the margins to have Agent James Avery take a look at him. Suddenly, she scratches the note out, deciding against it. A lot of people have met their demise as a result of looking into Senator Bracken. It would be unfair – unethical – to pull her friend and partner into this mess, especially unwillingly.

"I will look into it myself," she finally tells Kate.

Kate, for her part, considers asking Esposito and Ryan for their help – behind the scenes of course. She doesn't want to put them in harm's way, but she also knows that both men have somewhat of a vested interest in Senator Bracken. Or so she believes.

"I can ask a couple of my friends from the 12th to take a quick peek at Mr. Simmons," Kate says, finally. Jordan, however, wonders to herself exactly how close these friends remain with Kate – not because of her departure to D.C., but rather because of how it all went down.

Unbeknownst to the women, they are far closer to the truth than they realize, and are unaware of the telephone conversation occurring as they work out their plans from Chicago.

_**Mid-July, Same Morning, 9:05 a.m. EST – from Senator William Bracken's office in D.C.**_

"It's time, my friend," Senator Bracken says into the burner phone. He sits in his office, staring out of the window at beautiful day outside, and smiles.

"Are you certain?" Vulcan Simmons asks him. "I thought you wanted to wait a bit longer before we fully turned on the operation."

It's not often – at all – that Senator William Bracken allows someone to question him, to push back like this. Even his 'handlers' have learned how to fall in line. That he allows this from Simmons is something he occasionally wonders about. The man is different. He truly has no fear. That is both a blessing and a curse when dealing with one like Bracken.

"I am positive," the senator tells him. He knows that Vulcan Simmons is concerned with the detectives of the 12th Precinct. They are the ones who have come the closest to actually doing any harm to him. One detective in particular, and Simmons isn't buying the rumor that she has left the precinct, that she has moved on to bigger and better pastures. That's not the Kate Beckett he knows. The Beckett he knows will never drop her mother's case, and her mother's case is right here, in the city. She may be gone now, but he believes she still has her tentacles in the city. Hell, for all he knows, she may be coming back from time to time – or even more frequently than that.

"Vulcan, do not be concerned with them," Bracken tells him, then continues. "With her. Kate Beckett has moved on, and so have the detectives of the 12th. And the writer. I have made sure of that."

"Those folks were tight," Simmons counters. "_Are_ tight. Trust me, you have seen them from a distance. I have seen them up close and personal. That's a family there, Senator. That's family."

"Even families get divorced, my friend," and the words from the senator are enough to sway the drug lord. Yeah, families have their issues, too. And sometimes they prove to be insurmountable.

"Kate Beckett is here in D.C., and trust me, she is being kept busy," Bracken smiles. He actually has to stifle a laugh as he considers how easy it has been to play the former detective, to move her around on his game board. She has proven to be every bit as predictable as he had anticipated.

"Mr. Castle is in New York, and as I understand it, even he has moved on," the senator continues. "He has found a new toy to take up his time."

"I heard," Simmons laughs, and the senator joins in with him. "A private investigator?" Simmons asks out loud, and both men continue to chuckle.

"And the detectives? Well, let's just say that their current boss is nowhere as lenient as her predecessor," Bracken continues.

"She in your pocket as well?" Simmons asks.

"Gates? No, unfortunately not. The woman is too straight, too by the book. Can't be swayed," Bracken states, almost with a bit of admiration. "But that does not mean she cannot be _used_," he adds, smiling. "Sometimes the best weapons on the battlefield are those who don't even recognize they are a weapon. They don't realize they are being used. They just do their job, live their life – and in doing so, play the role that I need them to play."

"That's Gates, eh?" Simmons asks, whistling.

"That's Gates," Bracken agrees.

"Trust me, my friend," Bracken concludes, ready to hang up. "Kate Beckett has moved on, and is presently occupied. Her friends have moved on as well. All is as planned. You just keep your nose clean, stay off the radar as you so expertly do, and you will be fine."

With that, Senator Bracken signs off, terminating the call. He continues glancing out the window, and decides that a walk is in order. He needs to stretch his legs, stretch his mind. Suddenly, another thought hits him, and he retrieves the burner phone once more, quickly dialing a number from memory. It rings once, twice, then three times.

"Odd," he thinks to himself, as the call is answered before the fourth ring.

"Senator," Elena Markov greets him, somewhat out of breath.

"Am I catching you at a bad time?" he asks her, noticing her labored breathing.

"Give me a moment," she says, as she tightens her legs around her adversary's neck, and with a grunt, quickly snaps it. She feels the weight of her opponent go limp beneath her, as she unleashes a haunting, terrible smile.

"My apologies," she offers the senator a few seconds later. "I am all yours now."

Senator Bracken smiles himself, fully understanding the meaning and the likely events that have just transpired on the other end of his phone call.

"Are you stateside, my champion?" he asks her. He knows she appreciates this term he has coined for her. That, and one other.

"No," she responds. "Do I need to be?"

"No, no, not yet," he says, making sure she understands there is no urgency. "However, when you do return, please seek me out immediately. It has begun."

"I will, my lord," she says, using the title that she has learned he most appreciates.

"You are my Lancelot, Elena," he offers her, and smiles as she disconnects the call.

"And you my King," she says, hanging up, and staring down at the dead eyes that gaze up at her. She reaches down, closes the eyes.

"Sleep well," she tells the dead man below her, as she rises up, shakes the dust and dirt from the quick fight off of her clothes, and walks out of the small, rented room. Minutes later, she walks out into the bright afternoon sunlight, and stares at the Eiffel Tower that stands tall in the distance.


	18. Chapter 18

**The Wonder: Chapter 18**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The next morning in New York City, at Richard Castle's Loft, 9:25 a.m**_

The morning sunlight kisses Serena Kaye's face, and she manages to pull the covers up over her head, turning away from the window in Richard Castle's guest room. Sleepy eyes begin to crack open, and through blurry vision she manages to reach her cell phone that sits on the nightstand across from her. One click, turning the screen on, tells her that is almost 9:30 in the morning.

This jars her senses awake, as she realizes it has been a long, long time since she has slept in this long. Weekday, weekend, it really doesn't matter. She is usually up before 7:30 a.m., even without a desk job to go to. Hers is more of an 'on-call' business, as theoretically, one can never know when you are going to get called into an insurance case.

She swings her legs around, over the edge of the bed, placing her feet on the soft, plush carpet that sits under the queen-sized bed here in the guest room. The rug surrounds the bed, and she smiles at the softness her toes sink into. Gazing further out in the room, she sees the wooden floor that awaits her beyond the rug, knowing, even here in the summer months, that the cool floor is going to require her to sprint a bit to the bathroom.

Five minutes later, her teeth are brushed and she finds herself standing in the surprisingly large guest room shower, allowing the warm water to massage tired muscles. She alternates, having used relatively cool-to-cold water initially to shock herself fully awake. Now fully alert, she sighs as the warmer water does it's magic. Lathering up, she smiles, noticing that Richard Castle has equipped both men's and women's bath gel in this guest bathroom. She can't help but be impressed, as she realizes that she is standing in what would normally be considered a very large shower stall in a master bath room. She smiles again, realizing that even when considering his friends' and guests' experience in the shower, the man is surprisingly generous.

By no means did Serena Kaye believe all of the wild stories about the playboy Richard Castle, especially after seeing him that first time, almost a couple of years ago. It was clear then that the 'page six playboy' was smitten with a certain detective. But she also knows that the old adage 'where there is smoke, there is fire' is more often than not, very true. So the considerate layout that the man has obviously provided for _any_ guest – male or female – still surprises her a bit.

Last night had also been a surprise. Rather, make that the wee hours of this morning when they arrived at his place after departing from her loft. It was sweet; no, scratch that – it was smart and very considerate of Richard Castle to not only allow Serena to sleep here at his home, but downright insist upon it. She now realizes that – somehow, for some reason – she trusts this man more than she has trusted any other man (or woman, for that matter) other than Roland. Still, he surprised her when they arrived at his home earlier this morning, just after midnight.

"Hungry?" he had asked, and she had quickly declined, having eaten earlier before taking her drive upstate to clear her head. Finding the Rock of God in her home and the subsequent badgering from New York's Finest didn't generate an appetite for her. Rather, it had just made her bone weary and tired.

Nodding his head, he had taken her hand, and led her upstairs. Mistaking his normal touchy-feeling act of friendship as something else, Serena had been both excited and disappointed.

Excited because perhaps it meant that perhaps there was a spark there.

Disappointed because, in truth, she isn't sure that she wants a spark there. Disappointed because she has been enjoying something rare with a man in her life. Simple friendship.

He had led her to the guest room, opening the door, and extending his hand to allow her to walk in before him. A couple of steps into the massive guest room - which raised even her eyebrows - she noticed him walk quickly to the guest bath room and turn on the lights there. She followed him there, and he pointed out the essentials.

"There is a separate water heater for this room and Alexis' room, and she's not here, so feel free to consume as much as you want in the morning," he had smiled, drawing a smile from her as well. "Towels are over here," and Serena could hold back a small giggle.

"What's so funny about Tigger and Winnie the Pooh?" he had asked, while trying to stifle his own laughter.

Then he had left the bathroom, her just a few steps behind, waiting for the next shoe to drop. A shoe drop that never came. Castle had walked straight to the bedroom door, paused, and taken a step back toward Serena and pulled her into a friendly embrace.

"Have a good night, Serena. No alarms. You've had a busy day," he acknowledged, and with that, he was gone. Without so much as a kiss on the forehead or a peck on the cheek, the chivalrous man had left the room. The smile on Serena's face had grown broader with each step away from the room she heard from the hallway. Ten minutes later, her clothes put up in the closet and in the guest drawers, Serena Kaye was fast asleep.

So now, as it approaches ten o'clock in the morning, Serena walks out of the guest room headed downstairs. She passes what she assumes is the master bedroom, and considers knocking and entering before decided against it. A half minute later, she is at the bottom of the steps, quickly realizing that she is alone in the loft. She walks into the kitchen and – sure enough – there is a note there.

"_In the den. Come in when you wake up."_

She smiles, as it takes a minute to find the den, given that there is a bedroom, a living room and a working office all downstairs along with the den. She finds it on the second try, and smiles even bigger as she walks in and smells the blueberry muffins that obviously have very recently been taken out of the oven from the kitchen and placed on the platter, along with chunks of pineapple and melons.

"Good morning," Castle says, hearing her walk in. His back is to her, as he stands in front of a large live, smart-board.

"Good morning," she replies, too far away to see what he studies on the board.

"I heard the shower kick on half an hour ago, so I put the muffins in then. They are still warm," he offers. "Did you sleep okay?"

"I slept fine, Richard," she tells him, and he turns his head, momentarily facing her. He likes the use of his first name, realizing that – for the past five years – he has not been Rick, or Richard, or hell, even Dick. He's been Castle. He's been writer-boy. Best case, he's been Mr. Castle, and that only from Captain Victoria Gates.

Yeah, hearing his first name is kind of nice.

She walks to the table in the den and picks up a muffin, placing it on a small plate. She notices he already has pineapple juice poured, as well as a glass of milk. Opting for the milk, she wanders over toward the board, and stops in her tracks.

She sees her picture in the middle of the 60-inch computer smart screen. Next to her is an image of the Rock of God, with arrows pointing out in multiple directions. She sees a few pictures of people on the board; people she does not recognize. In fact, there is only one face other than hers on the board that she recognizes, and she immediately stiffens in defense. She knows what this is. This is his case board. It makes sense that the novelist-turned-private investigator would have a high-tech case board.

Still, she does not like seeing a picture of her brother on this board. Richard Castle has some explaining to do, in her mind.

"So . . . what am I looking at here?" she asks.

"I think you already know the answer to that," he smiles.

"Conversation-starter, Mr. Castle," she counters. Don't be so difficult this early in the morning," she adds, smiling herself.

"Early?" he kids her.

"Fine, we'll play it that way," she smiles, now a bit more menacingly. He quickly realizes his miscalculation, but it is too late. Her smile remains, but her tone has a bite to it.

"What is my brother doing on your suspect board?" she asks, getting right to the point.

"Okay, okay, hold on," Castle says, backpedaling a bit. "Just look at this as . . . look at it like this. See this as my thoughts put on paper," he says, searching for the right words. "There is no implied guilt or innocence here. I have questions about certain people, and I have questions _for_ certain people. All of that is represented here."

Serena considers his words, and sees the validity, the potential wisdom in the approach. Half a minute later, as she studies the names and faces on the board, she finally acquiesces.

"So, who is he?" she says, pointing to an Irish-looking man.

"That's Finn Rourke, the leader of the Westies," he tells her. "He is the primary person I want to speak with this afternoon. I suspect it is too early for him to be at the Irish Pub right now," he says, glancing at his watch.

"The Westies," Serena comments out loud. It's not a question or a statement.

"The Westies pretty much run the cargo theft business here in the city. That's their . . . their competency," Castle says, practicing the words he is going to use with their volatile and certainly intimidating leader. He had spent roughly an hour in bed during the wee hours of the morning, after leaving Serena in the guest room, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, before it all came together in his head.

"That's how I believe it happened, Serena," he tells her. That's how the Rock of God was stolen. It never even made it to the museum."

"Impossible," she says. "I saw it there myself before –"

"You saw the same fake, the same forgery that was placed in your home, Serena," he tells her. "The real piece was already long gone."

"How . . . how do you know?" she asks him, realizing that if he is correct, then proving her innocence just likely became far more difficult.

"I know what you're thinking," he tells her, smiling. "You're thinking that this makes it worse for you. Far from it," he gives her, hoping she sees the logic. "By finding out what really happened, and when it happened, even if we don't have all of the who's and why's, we can at least eliminate you in the eyes of the police."

Before she can respond, he continues now, excitedly. He's been waiting for her to wake up so he can share his theory with her.

"My thought is the Westies have to be involved, because the painting, the sculpture, whatever you want to call it, it had to have been taken before it got to the museum," he says, drawing a confused look from Serena.

"Why?" is all she can manage to say.

"Same reason that I knew it was a fake last night, when I saw Detective Turner lift it so easily. Stealing a two-hundred plus pound object is going to be difficult enough. The smart play, the best play if you plan on stealing it, is to take it before it reaches its final resting place."

He pauses, as she smiles, realizing the validity of his theory. Now with her understanding firmly in place, he continues, smiling excitedly.

"When I realized that if I was going to steal it, I would take it long before it hit the museum, I realized then who I would need to turn to for help. I realized who I would need to hire, to pay off. If I want to grab it before it gets to the museum, I need someone who is good _at that_, who is good at obtaining things _in transit_. That's cargo theft, by definition, and only one person truly owns that business here in the city."

"Finn Rourke," she smiles, nodding her head in agreement. "Wow, I would not have gone down this road," she says surprisingly.

"It's the only answer that makes sense. Stealing the Rock is a two person job. It's easier to pull this job while it is enroute to the museum as opposed to once it is already there, behind umpteen levels of security."

"Umpteen levels of security that someone still got through," Serena reminds him.

"Doesn't matter," Castle argues. "Security is the easy part for a master thief who knows what he is doing. Carrying that bad boy? Well, that's a whole set of problems in itself," and she cannot argue the point.

"So if the Westies took it . . ." she says, her voice trailing off.

"They had to have been hired by someone to steal it. My guess is that they stole it from the airliner that brought it, from the cargo hold. They probably pulled the switch then, putting the forgery in the cargo hold. Maybe they did it in Europe, maybe they did it here. Who knows . . ."

She nods in agreement, following the arrows on Castle's board.

"Once they had the real piece, Finn had a couple of his associates load up the forgery and then deliver it to the museum and set it in place," he says.

"Why a couple?" she asks. "If it's the forgery, they only need one person to carry it."

"Appearances," he tells her. "Anyone in the museum who knows the piece, who knows the details would immediately be suspicious when this non-descript guy walks in, easily carrying under his arm what is supposed to be a couple of hundred pounds of stone."

Serena nods again, adding her own thoughts now. "Smart. That way, no one in an official position ever even handled the fake, and so no one ever discovered – due to its weight – that it was a fake."

Both Castle and Serena stare at the board for another few seconds, before Serena asks the question Castle is expecting.

"So, in your theory, who hired the Westies, and why did it show up at my home?"

"Wrong question," he corrects her, smiling. It's the question he knew she would ask, and it is the one question that – right now – he could not care less about.

"What's the right question?" she asks.

"The right question," Castle tells her. "Why did someone steal a fake?"

He lets the question – and its implications – sit and grow roots with his beautiful guest, who is now pondering this very question.

"Unless we are dealing with two separate people, two separate entities who both had plans on stealing the Rock of God-"

"Very doubtful," Serena interrupts. "That's very unlikely."

"Agree. So we are dealing with one person, one entity, who made plans to steal the Rock. So why steal it, replace it with a fake, and then steal the fake?" Castle asks. "Once you have stolen the original, you have achieved your goal. And best of all, you have achieved your goal and no one is the wiser."

"Unless," Serena begins, a frown forming on her face, and a bit of a fire now kindling in her eyes. "Unless you had two goals in mind."

"Exactly," Castle tells her. "The first goal was to get the piece. They accomplished this without suspicions being raised. Therefore, the only reason to raise suspicions by stealing the fake you have already successfully planted is –"

"Is to frame someone," Serena says, completing the thought. "Me."

"Yep," Castle says. "That's why this is personal. Someone wanted the painting, but just as much, they wanted to take you down as well. They didn't want to just take the painting and get away with it. It was every bit as important to our thief that you take the fall. Stealing it and no one ever knowing that it was stolen was never the intent here," Castle finishes.

Serena considers this for a moment. It's a lot to take in early in the morning, blueberry muffins notwithstanding. Castle continues to study his board while waiting for Serena's next thoughts. They come soon enough.

"So, what now?" she finally asks.

"Now," he says, "I pay a visit to Finn Rourke."

"Is that wise?" she asks. She knows the man's reputation.

"Probably not," Castle agrees. "But I don't see that we have a choice. We have to confirm that this is what happened. That means I'm going to make some unpleasant insinuations to a very dangerous man," Castle says, and the frown on his face and the slight tenor in his voice tells her that Richard Castle knows exactly how dangerous – and potentially stupid – this is going to be.

"I don't need any of your blood on my hands, Richard," she says, genuinely meaning every word.

"Neither do I," he smiles. "What's worse – Rourke and I have met before, and . . . and . . ."

"And what?" Serena asks, now even more worried about what is facing them.

"Well, let's just say that I didn't make that great an impression," he smiles weakly, as he recalls the mobster considering him . . . less than masculine.

"Well then, how do we –"

"_We_," he interrupts, "don't do anything. I am going alone on this one, Serena."

"No way," she counters, fire in her voice. She's not going to let him go into that situation alone, and further, she's not used to having anyone else go fight her battles.

"It has to be this way, Serena," he calmly disagrees, now placing his hands in his pockets, turning to his side to face her.

"Think about how it would look if we are right. If we are right then someone paid Finn Rourke to steal the piece, and to frame you. Now how will it look if the person he was supposed to frame turns up and starts asking unpleasant questions."

She angrily has to admit he has a point there. She opens her mouth to speak, but catches her words, knowing they have no logic in this case. Knowing she recognizes the truth in his words, Castle continues.

"I'm already going to be up the creek with the line of questioning that I have for him," he says. "I don't need you there making matters worse for me."

_**Later that afternoon, in New York City, at the Irish Pub, 1:05 p.m**_

Richard Castle nervously stands at the bar, doing a very good job of masking the nerves that he feels. It's been almost four years or so since he has been in this bar. This is clearly not the Old Haunt, and clearly not the clientele from the Old Haunt. The crowd is rough, and there is almost a darkness that hangs in the atmosphere here.

He is lost in his thoughts when Finn Rourke makes his way through the bar and stands in front of Castle.

"I am surprised to see you here, Mr. Castle," he says to him in his rough tone and distinct accent. "What can I do for you?"

"Hello Finn," Castle begins. He had wondered, during the cab ride here, exactly what salutation to use in greeting the man. 'Mr. Rourke' would show respect, but that only works when respect is reciprocated. Taking a page from his precinct friends and simply referring to him as Rourke is an option. But not a smart one. He decided, literally as he was walking into the establishment, upon using the man's first name - and an occasional 'sir' thrown in – literally for good health. His own.

Castle gets right to the point. That's another intentional decision he has made. No small talk. Just get right to it.

"I'm here to tell you a story," Castle begins. He's a writer. That's his foundation. Telling a story puts him in control, keeps him in his comfort zone amongst the predators in this very unfamiliar jungle.

"Do tell, boyo," Rourke responds. "Artie, be a good lad and bring two bourbons," he tells the bartender who stands roughly ten feet away behind the bar.

"Sure thing, Finn," Artie says, and quickly busies himself making the drinks as told.

"Thank you," Rick acknowledges, and then starts in. "There is this guy – you may have met him in the past – wrote novels, hit a blank wall, then starting following a bunch of cops around for inspiration."

"Sounds a bit autobiographical to me," Rourke smirks, drawing laughter from the couple of associates that sit at a four-top table not even ten eight feet away.

"Perhaps," Castle smiles, maintaining a friendly banter, and staying in the role of storyteller. "Regardless, this guy spends a few years working with the cops, and then something happens. You know how it is, you think everything is ok and then all of the sudden, it no longer is okay anymore. So they split, and agree to go their own way."

"Ah, did Legs finally tire of you, Pretty Boy?" Rourke asks, jabbing again, much to the delight of the table near them.

Castle intentionally lets a bit of venom enter his voice, a bit of feistiness show in his eyes – and it surprises him that it isn't all that difficult to manufacture.

"He moves on, establishes his own home base," Castle says, ignoring the jab, and handing the mobster a business card.

_Richard Rodgers, dba Richard Castle, Private Investigator._

"Off on your own now, are you?" Rourke says, an eyebrow raised, now genuinely curious where this conversation is going to take them. Artie brings two drinks to the corner of the bar island where they stand.

"Have a seat, Mr. Castle," Rourke now says, as he sits at the bar, and takes a long swallow of bourbon. Castle sits, as asked, and follows suit with the drink. Fortunately, he knows that, if necessary, he can pound a few rounds with this man.

"His first case is a doozie," Castle says, continuing his story. "A famous piece of art is stolen. Turns out to be the perfect crime. A switch is pulled, and no one realizes that the piece delivered to the museum is a fake. Perfect crime," Castle finishes, and while Rourke doesn't say anything, Castle cannot help but notice how the man's eyes have narrowed, considerably. Knowing he is rapidly approaching the proverbial moment of truth, Castle steels himself, and continues.

"Only there is a catch to the story. Somehow, the perfect crime is blown when – after successfully switching pieces and getting away with it – the guy comes back and decides to steal the fake."

Castle takes another swallow to calm nerves that are in full retreat, as he watches Rourke eye him dangerously. He continues, pressing.

"Now, everyone knows that the piece is stolen. It's a real mystery, Finn. Why would someone successfully pull off a first-class switch, only to steal the fake and tell the world that a crime had been committed? That doesn't seem very smart," he adds, knowing that he might be overstepping.

"Careful Mr. Castle," Rourke warns him ominously. "I'm not a fan of stories where wild accusations are made."

"I'm not a fan of having friends framed," Castle says, and he waits for it. The punch to the back of the head, the sudden feel of gravity pulling him downward.

It never comes. Instead, Finn Rourke simply eyes him, breathing in and out through his teeth, deciding upon what words to use.

"I will thank you to finish your drink and leave my establishment, Mr. Castle," Rourke tells him in a threatening tone. "I would be careful where I make accusations and insinuations in the future."

Castle manages a smile – he really has to dig deep for this – to keep appearances up. He'd rather not finish the drink because he isn't sure that his shaking hands will hold the glass without dropping it. But not finishing the drink is a show of disrespect. It's a no-win situation. He makes the decision quickly, and grabs the drink and throws down the remainder of the bourbon – without dropping the glass thankfully. The warm liquid gives him that final bit of courage needed.

"Oh, and Mr. Castle," Finn Rourke adds as Castle makes his way out of the bar, "Pray that this is our final meeting. I have had the displeasure of meeting you twice now, and trust that it will be our last. You do not have Legs and the NYPD to save your ass."

Seconds later, Castle squints against the sudden bright sun that flares against his eyes. Lifting a hand to see better in the sudden glare, he raises his other hand to hail a cab. A yellow taxi – blessedly – picks this moment to drive up. He slides into the back seat, gives his home address, and then leans back, closing his eyes.

"Thank you, God," he whispers, and then breaks out into laughter.

Back in the Irish Pub bar, Finn Rourke gives instructions to the two gentlemen who were sitting at the table near the conversation, but now stand next to their boss.

"Check into it for me," he tells them. "Find out if Mr. Castle is still associated – _in any way at all_ – with the 12th Precinct. Find out if Mr. Castle is indeed a private investigator. Find out what the relationship between Mr. Castle and that detective . . . Beckett, I believe her name is."

"Got it, Finn," the closest man tells him and the two men head out of the bar, turning once as Rourke calls out to them one final time.

"Find out if Mr. Castle has told us a true story or a string of fables."

"What about the painting?" Artie asks from behind the bar.

"Let me worry about that, lad," Rourke tells him. "Now fill me up again."


	19. Chapter 19

**The Wonder: Chapter 19**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**The Same afternoon in New York City, at the 12**__**th**__** Precinct, 1:45 p.m**_

Javier Esposito sits at his desk, finishing the last of the paperwork for their most recent case. A drug bust gone bad, with a cop ending up shot. It turned out to be a fairly easy case: young street pusher gets cornered, panics and fires his gun, and gets away out of the building. His only problem is that he picked a building for the meet that had outdoor surveillance. Young kid, young mistake. He'll spend a lot of time in jail.

Kevin Ryan sits in Captain Gates' office, briefing the captain on this latest case while Esposito documents everything. It was a flip of the coin to decide who met with Gates and who got write-up duty, and Esposito lost.

Victoria Gates has been . . . well, she's been different in these past couple of months. No one will say it publicly, but Detective Kate Beckett leaving the precinct hit the captain hard – almost as hard as it did the two detectives who, for years, formed part of the triumvirate, until they were joined by one Richard Castle, who turned it into a foursome.

Kate leaving left a bad taste in more than one mouth at the 12th. Scratch that – it wasn't _that_ she left. It was more in _how_ she left. None of them begrudged her a chance to advance her career, and hell, let's face it – getting out of homicide? It's a dream come true for each of them. No one enjoys homicide. You get satisfaction from a job well done, yeah. You get satisfaction from seeing justice served, yeah. But enjoy it?

Not a chance.

So, no, there were no hard feelings toward Kate Beckett for finding the path out. But not to talk to any of them?

Gates couldn't blame her for not coming to her, because she has known the captain all of less than a year, and only recently, in the last three months, did they seem to reach a good place with one another. Gates isn't stupid, she realizes that her good place with Beckett coincided with her accepting Kate's relationship with Richard Castle. And that acceptance can come under great duress for the couple. So Victoria Gates had been more than surprised, yeah, to see Kate Beckett willing to leave the man she supposedly loved just weeks after 'coming out', so to speak.

But Gates certainly didn't understand Kate not sharing her plans, or at least bouncing ideas off either Esposito or Ryan. Either of them, it wouldn't have really mattered to the captain which one. But to withhold her thoughts, her concerns, her dreams from even them . . . both of them . . . well, it has caused Captain Gates more than once to question just how well any of them knew the detective.

As for Esposito and Ryan, both men find themselves – not surprisingly – on the same side now when it comes to Kate Beckett. She has always been their sister. They have always been family. But now they consider her to be their estranged sister. It's sad, really, how families can break apart – and so suddenly at that. And usually it is because of one of two things: a misunderstanding, or a breach of trust.

In this case, it turns out to be a bit of both.

All either man knows is that a wonderful opportunity came to Beckett, for which they were exceedingly happy for their friend. Ryan in particular was thrilled, because he saw it as a chance for Kate Beckett to further distance herself from her mother's case. A case that had gotten his friend sniped at during a funeral, and kicked off the edge of a building a summer later. Yeah, her leaving New York had to put some distance between Kate and her quest. It is the greatest of ironies that her move has actually done no such thing.

For Javier Esposito, however, it is more about one Richard Castle, and what Kate's departure has done to a man that had become far closer to Espo than even he realized. To Javier, Richard Castle is the kindest, most generous, most forgiving, most patient man on the planet. He had watched the man do this awkward, increasingly-hard-to-watch dance with the woman he considered his sister for years. Years! And during that time, save an occasional dalliance with – of all people – either of his ex-wives, Castle's attention span was firmly plugged in to one Kate Beckett.

For years, he watched Castle go from one heartbreak to another with Kate, only to respond by clinging more closely, more fiercely. Only to respond with floor tickets, loaning of his car, paying a few bills. The fork in the road, for Esposito came when he watched the man write a one hundred thousand dollar check on the spot, no questions asked, to help Kate in her infernal quest. The fact that she didn't ask for it only made the action more impressive, less a gesture and more a gauntlet thrown down.

Beckett's response? A dalliance with Detective Tom Demming, one that continued square in the face of an increasingly heartbroken Castle until Esposito himself stepped in to try and help Kate see what she was doing to the writer, and potentially to any chance they may have had. In the end, he was a day too late, as Castle had already, momentarily, given up, and jumped into one of those crazy "my ex-wife is my best option" periods.

When the two finally connected, and admitted their feelings, no one in the precinct was happier for them than Detective Javier Esposito. And therefore, no one more despondent and confused than Esposito when Kate Beckett left the writer, when the writer allowed her to leave, and all of this occurred while an engagement ring sat, lonely, in the writer's coat pocket.

Yeah, truth be told, Esposito didn't like the fact that his friend didn't consider him part of her inner circle enough to confide in what she was thinking. But the fact that she didn't confide in Castle either? That one confused him. You're not supposed to treat your good friends like that, but hell, you certainly don't treat someone you are serious and intimate with like that.

"_Perhaps she was intimate, but not serious,"_ he has thought numerous times in the past couple of months.

Today, however, his mind is far from Kate Beckett and her abrupt departure to the Feds that she previous so despised. Another case has been closed, and everyone goes home, alive and healthy. His best friend goes home to a wife, and he goes home . . . well, he goes home alive.

This is his mindset when his cell phone rings, and he sees the familiar face, hears the familiar ring. Despite himself, he allows himself to get excited.

"Kate!" he greets her. His smile that she cannot see is both bright and genuine.

"Hey Javi, how are you," Kate Beckett says, smiling broadly herself. Just hearing his voice is a pang in her heart, reminding her of exactly how much she has thrown away.

"I'm good, I'm good, how about you?" Esposito says, jumping up quickly from his desk. He takes six broad steps to the window of Captain Gate's office, and bangs on the window. Both Gates and Ryan left their heads to stare at the detective, the captain's stare more a glare. Esposito mouths the word 'Beckett', which causes a noticeable shift in both cops in the office. Kevin Ryan quickly stands, his face asking permission to leave from his captain. She waits a second or two before nodding her head with a frown.

Esposito begins walking to an interrogation room, listening to Kate's response, listening to her tell him she is good also, that she misses him, she misses Kevin Ryan. She misses Lanie. He closes the door behind them as Kevin Ryan enters and sits at the table.

"Do you mind if I put you on speakerphone, Kate?" he asks. "Kevin is here with me," he says.

"Sure, sure," she tells him, but then quickly realizing the sensitive nature of her upcoming request, adds, "can you go to a safe place? Maybe one of the interrogation rooms?"

"Already there," he tells her, and for some reason her request has hurt his heart. Is this a business call? No word from her in months, and the first time they hear from her, is this really going to be all business?

"What's up, Beckett?" Kevin Ryan asks cheerily. After a minute of pleasantries exchanged, Kate gets to the gist of her phone call.

"Look boys, I know I really don't have a right to ask, but I have a favor," she says. "and believe me, I understand if you don't feel comfortable with this –"

"What's up, Kate?" Espo asks again.

"I can't tell you very much, I'm just asking you to trust me. I'd like to see if you can look into the dealings of Vulcan Simmons."

The name brings raised eyebrows from both detectives. Simmons is darn near one of the untouchables, if there is such a thing. Numerous times the police department and DA have attempted to make things stick on the teflon drug dealer, but never with any success.

"I'd like to know if there is anything new, anything different going on with him."

"Why, Kate? That's not exactly an easy ask," Esposito states.

"And hard to do without the guy finding out. He's always a step ahead, somehow," Kevin Ryan adds, as both been look at each other, frowning.

"I know it's not," Kate agrees, "and I wouldn't ask this if it weren't really important. And a certain senator may be involved."

Kevin does not hear the next few sentences. His mind wanders back a year or so to another occasion where Kate Beckett was asking something difficult. That time, 'a certain senator' had been involved also, although they didn't know it at the time. That time, Espo had sided with her, while Kevin had gone to Gates, temporarily setting afire the bridge of friendship and partnership that he and Espo had built over the years. That time, Esposito ended up unconscious inside a building, while Kate was left dangling off the edge of that same building. Kevin Ryan knows that had he arrived two seconds later, Kate Beckett would be dead.

Now she is asking an equally difficult task, only because she is choosing not to be forthcoming about her reasons.

Esposito seems to be reading his mind, and Ryan can tell by the face his friend makes that he, too is uncomfortable with this. Kevin mouths the word 'mute' to his friend, and watches as Javier puts the call on mute, so that Kate cannot hear their exchange.

"I think we should bring Captain Gates into this," Kevin says.

"I'm already here," their captain says suddenly, standing at the door that she had very quietly opened. The men should be a bit miffed, but they are actually relieved to see their boss in the doorway. She steps in, closing the door.

She makes a knifing motion across her throat, indicating Esposito should end the call, and she mouths the words 'call her back.' It's enough for both men.

"Kate, let us get back to you in a couple of minutes – let us skull this for a minute," Esposito says, and Kate is not stupid. She knew was either going to get an immediate yes, or a delayed no from her friends. She now has her answer. She can't be angry with them, but she can't hide her disappointment.

"Sure, sure, Javi," she says. "Call me back when you can."

They terminate the call, when Captain Gates fairly explodes.

"What? Did IQ's seriously drop to the floor here in the last couple of minutes?" she thunders angrily.

"Now wait a minute, Captain," Esposito counters, "we didn't agree to anything and –"

"- and I was headed to your office to get you," Kevin Ryan adds. Gates knows this to be true, since she was standing at the door when Ryan made the move to reach out to her. Angry, she still cannot help a small smile. It's a little victory, but one that makes her feel good. Another sign that this is becoming _her_ team, instead of Kate Beckett's team.

"Gentlemen," Captain Gates begins, "Kate Beckett is gone. By her own decision. We cannot – no, let me rephrase this," she tells both men. "We _will_ not reinsert the 12th Precinct into Kate Beckett's personal war. Need I remind either of you what happened the last time we allowed this to happen."

She doesn't need to remind either man, as both frown, as they stand, hands in pockets. She doesn't want to be too hard on them, because she knows they have made great strides, these three, in the past few months. But she also knows the fierce loyalty that both men may still feel toward the detective. Loyalty that she has come to see as decidedly one-sided.

"She does have a point," Esposito admits out loud. "Kate left. She left her war, she left us, and no one was happier for her than us. But it's her war, and she's moved on."

Kevin Ryan is quiet. His perspective is very, very different. It was Kevin who walked upon the unconscious Javier Esposito that day in the building. It was Kevin who ran to the edge of the building, only to see his friend dangling literally by her fingertips, ready to let go. Yeah, Kevin Ryan has seen first-hand what Kate's war looks like. And now he has a wife. They want a family. And Kate is no longer here. And Vulcan Simmons is not a man to be trifled with.

Both Esposito and Gates know Kevin Ryan well enough to understand where his thoughts are right now. And in the end, thankfully, Gates makes the decision for them.

"Gentlemen, Kate Beckett walked away from her war, and away from each of you, from all of us. She walked away even from Mr. Castle," she says, surprising the two detectives. "And now she wants to reinsert us back into the fray, blind, without knowing what we are looking for, against the most powerful drug runner in the city – and somehow this is connected to her war."

She shakes her head vigorously. "No, gentlemen, I'm afraid not. Let me make this executive decision. Put the blame on me, if you must, but you will stay away from Vulcan Simmons unless I give say otherwise."

Both men nod in agreement. As if to drive her point home, Gates adds, "and gentlemen, we have come a long way in the past couple of months, so I regret saying this . . . but this is an order."

"I'll call her," Esposito says softly, sadly, while his friend and boss take their leave from the room.

_**The Same afternoon, roughly three hours later, 4:30 p.m, outside Richard Castle's P.I. Office Building**_

Richard Castle and Serena Kaye walk along the sidewalk, leading to his building. The two have just left the restaurant where they had a long lunch. Castle had brought her up to speed on his meeting at the Irish Pub with Finn Rourke, leaving out no details. The conversation had turned more humorous than the actual meeting had been, in large part to Castle's storytelling abilities with the insurance investigator.

Truth be told, Richard Castle was just glad to get out of there alive, and he had honestly shared that with Serena as well. She, in turn, had responded with an infectious laughter that had briefly rocked their corner of the restaurant. They hadn't really made any new plans or strategies, as they have been trying to assess what their next steps should be since Castle was unable to get much out of Rourke.

Neither sees the large, black Chevy Suburban roll silently up to the curb ahead of them. Castle only notices when the back door opens, and a large goon who Castle immediately recognizes as one of the patrons from the Irish Pub gets out of the vehicle.

"Mr. Castle," the man says in a low, rumbling voice, his dark, shoulder length hair waving in the wind. He points to the back seat that he has just exited.

"Richard," Serena states, the fear starting to rise up in her voice.

"Not you, gorgeous," the man states. "Just him."

Castle makes a quick decision, one based upon rapid deductions. If they are going to kill him, they are going to kill him. They don't want her. She can go free. His mother isn't here, so she will be free. Alexis isn't here. His options are easy. And something tells him they don't want to kill him. It would have been too easy for them to conduct a quick drive by, instead of stopping and asking him to get into their vehicle.

No, this is a discussion, and it scares him, because Finn Rourke's last words to him were to pray that they would never meet again, essentially.

"Stay here, Serena," he tells her. "I will be fine," he says, adding "I hope" under his breath.

Seconds later he is in the back seat of the Suburban, and one Finn Rourke sits in the front passenger seat, now turning and facing the newbie private investigator. Now Castle isn't quite so sure he is going to make it out of this alive, all of the sudden. After all, he basically burst into this man's establishment and accused him of being involved in a fourteen million dollar heist. That kind of accusation, that kind of insinuation doesn't go without consequences. Suddenly, he is aware that Rourke is talking to him.

"I had your story checked out, Mr. Castle," he begins. "Fortunately for you, your story rings of truth. I am many things, Mr. Castle. Murderer, thief, _many_ things. But the truth? Aye, she is important to me. And I have learned two things this afternoon, Mr. Castle."

Castle tries desperately to keep her heartbeat in order and under control, as he can feel the beads of sweat threatening to pour off his forehead.

"_Private Investigator," _he tells himself._ "What in the world was I thinking?!"_

Rourke continues his story from the front seat.

"Fortunately for you, everything you have told me checked out. That cannot, however, be said for a different party, which I will deal with in my own way," he tells Castle, making sure that his meaning is quite clear.

"Now I am not a snitch, but the lack of truth shared with me can be reciprocated," he smirks, and then laughs to himself. The chuckles from the man sitting next to him in the back seat raise the hairs on the back of Richard Castle's neck. It is a feeling he won't soon forget.

"You want to know who is behind a certain switch of fine art, Mr. Castle," and Castle manages to nod his head, as he struggles to keep his eyes from opening saucer-wide.

"You have everything you need to know if you are a religious man," he tells him. "Are you a religious man, Mr. Castle? Are you religious? If you are, then you will find the eight ball most enlightening."

Suddenly, Castle finds himself being pushed, roughly, out of the vehicle. He struggles to maintain his balance as his feet hit the curb. The long-haired goon who gave up his seat, and has been standing out on the sidewalk 'guarding' Serena Kaye quickly slides back into his place in the back seat. The car door slams, and the Suburban slowly, deliberately pulls away from the curb, down the street, making the first right turn.

"Jesus, I'd say I am religious now," Castle mutters, as Serena walks quickly to him and pulls him into an embrace.

"Are you okay, Richard?" she asks, and he can tell her interest is genuine. His heartbeat feels as if it is probably double what it should be, and he closes his eyes as he holds onto her, willing his nerves to calm down.

"I think so," he tells her. "At least I'm not dead," he chuckles, drawing a punch in the arm. He walks her to the glass door entrance to his building. "Let's get inside," he says, anxious to get indoors. Somehow, he knows he will feel safer inside.

"What did they say?" Serena asks him.

"It was Finn Rourke," he tells her, and he sees the fear return to her face. "He said my story checked out. Then he told me that some other story did not," he says, frowning, as they walk toward the elevator. "I got the distinct impression that someone lied to him, and they are going to regret it."

Both shudder at the implication as they await the elevator. Seconds later, the doors slide open and they walk in and push the button for Castle's floor.

"He basically told me he would help us. Then he said that everything I need to know can be found if I am a religious man."

"What?"

"You heard me, word for word. He said that I have everything I need to know, if I am a religious man."

"What in the world can that possibly mean," she states, frustrated. First dangerous meetings, and now riddles, for crying out loud?

Castle unlocks and opens his office door, and is immediately greeted with the large legal size yellow manila envelope that lies on the floor. Serena sees it also, and instinctively stays at the door. Castle bends over to pick it up, and she notices the smirk on his face.

"What is it?" she asks.

He shows her the large envelope, and she reads the writing on the envelope.

'_For the religious man'_ it states.

Castle finds the humor in it. She does not. His smile is short lived, however. He knows the package is from Rourke, that much is clear. However, he quickly realizes that Rourke was in his office. It's Rourke's way of telling him that he can reach Castle, anytime, anywhere.

He opens the manila envelope and a white piece of paper falls out. A note. Handwritten. He reads it aloud.

"_I trust you will be agreeable if your assistance is required someday."_

He frowns, as does Serena. This has spiraled out of control quickly. Castle is uncomfortable with the note, and the potential arrangement it implies. Yet he reminds himself that this is the life of a private investigator, and if he is going to be successful with this, then he is going to have to develop contacts. And not all of them are going to be comfortable, or reputable. And now he has one. A big one.

He reaches into the manila envelope one final time, retrieving the Holy Bible inside.

"_Are you a religious man?"_

He chuckles now, eager to play the game. While Serena is no fan of the riddles Finn Rourke seems to be fond of, Richard Castle finds this intriguing. She can tell that – by God, he is almost having fun with this.

Castle stares at the Bible, and stares at the note.

"_Are you a religious man?"_

Castle sits down on the corner of his desk, and Serena takes a seat in the chair in front of the desk. Castle glances down and smiles, realizing that he and she were in these exact same positions just yesterday.

"_Has it only been one day?"_ he asks himself, amazed.

He continues to repeat the question Rourke asked him.

"_Are you a religious man?"_

"_Are you a religious man?"_

Scratching his head, he searches for the meaning, as he stares at the book in his hand. Serena remains quiet, allowing him to think. A religious man would know what to do with the book in his hands. A religious man would know this book backwards and forwards. A religious man would be able to recite verses, from specific chapters, from specific books.

Books!

Suddenly, in the midst of the silence, he realizes that he only has been reciting half of the question, half of the riddle.

"I forgot all about the eight ball," he says out loud. Serena cannot mask her confused look.

"What does an eight ball have to do with the Bible?" she asks, when it hits Castle.

He smiles at her, opening the book to the table of contents. Books. Eight ball, which is the winning ball in pool. Books. Could it be that simple? The eighth ball, the eighth book of the Bible.

Could it really be that simple?

Staring at the table of contents, he begins with Genesis in the Old Testament, and skims the names of the books, counting as he goes. One, Genesis. Two, Exodus. Three, Leviticus. Four, Numbers. He continues counting as he sees the names, until he gets to the eighth book of the Old Testament, and his face falls, his eyes immediately misting with tears.

Serena watches it all play out in front of her, and his sudden leak of emotions frightens her almost as much as the gangsters they have just encountered.

"Richard, what is it? Are you all right?"

He doesn't answer. What can he say to her? How can he answer her? He casually flips the pages, forty, fifty pages at a time until he arrives at the eighth book. Reaching the first page of the book, he sees the handwritten note at the top of the page, and nods his head.

The note simply says _'For the religious man'_

Underneath the handwritten note, he sees the first verse, from the first chapter, of the Book of Ruth.


	20. Chapter 20

**The Wonder: Chapter 20**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Five days later, Thursday July 18, in New York City, at the 9**__**th**__** Precinct, 10:15 a.m.**_

Detective Gary Turner sits at his desk, his hands flying across his keyboard, two fingers at a time, trying to finish up the paperwork for the case. Ruth Kaye sits in a holding cell, having just completed the fastest riches-to-rags descent in modern memory.

Serena Kaye had insisted – strongly – to Richard Castle not to share their findings with the police until Roland and Ruth were on their way back from the Bahamas. She knows that Kevin's world – her son's world – is getting ready to be shattered. She had begged Castle to give her son his final, normal vacation with 'mom and dad.' It was a hard and completely selfless action on her part, because the selfish part of her wanted to get her son away from Ruth Kaye as quickly as possible. The selfish part of her wanted to leave Ruth Kaye at the mercy of Finn Rourke, and his horrific brand of retribution and justice. In the end, Castle was able to bring about a compromise. They would hold off on talking to the authorities until the Kaye's plane was in the air from the Bahamas, and Serena would 'allow' Castle to journey, once again, into the belly of the Irish Pub, to plead for leniency with Ruth's life. The last thing Richard Castle wants – needs – is a life on his hands.

His conversation with Rourke had gone – surprisingly – without much of a fight, thankfully. Oh, you can believe that Finn Rourke pushed back more than a tiny bit. Ruth Kaye has given him an opportunity – he can make an example of her - according to Rourke's logic.

_**Three days ago, Monday, July 15, in New York City, at The Irish Pub, 7:40 p.m.**_

"You _are_ making an example of her," Castle argues – very softly and respectfully, of course. "Five to ten years in prison, the stigma of her crime following her forever, the stigma of her family betrayal following her forever, and the fact that she's going to be pretty much penniless when she gets out – those are tough things to live down, Mr. Rourke."

"Not enough," is Finn Rourke's response. For a moment, the older man goes silent, as if contemplating life's mysteries. It is times like this when Richard Castle finds this man both terrifying in his current capacity, while inspiring in his role as a novelist.

Suddenly, the older man brightens up, his mood downright cheery. The change in demeanor frightens Richard Castle half to death, as he now, for the first time – after writing such a scene countless times for Derrick Storm and Nikki Heat – is bearing witness to that moment - that very instant - where a decision has been made that will end, or significantly alter, a person's life.

"What are you thinking, Mr. Rourke," Castle asks, quickly adding "if I may be so bold."

"You may not," Finn Rourke responds quickly, with a harsh chuckle. But seconds later, the man has softened, relented.

Ah, Mr. Castle, do you know how often hell can visit a person over five to ten years' time in prison?"

His smile will be a nightmare for Castle for the next couple of nights, and probably beyond that. On one hand, he knows that – with his silence – he is condemning Ruth Kaye to dark times - dangerously dark times - over the next decade. On the other hand, there is no way on earth he is going to push Finn Rourke any further.

"An interesting way to tell me her identity," Castle offers, trying to lighten the mood in the dark pub. There is laughter in the back, the sounds when inebriation and courage join forces.

Rourke merely nods his head, and he gives Castle the oddest look – almost one of admiration.

"Being a writer, I knew you would be appreciative, and I trusted you to figure it out. The good book can tell you much, Mr. Castle. I gave you two answers with my gift to you. The first you have already figured out – the identity of our thief and framer. The second – well, I can see by your confused state that it yet alludes you. No matter, you are in a state of grace with me, and my establishment."

With that, Finn Rourke moves away, toward the laughter in the back, raising his glass as he lets loose with a loud laugh and some words that Richard Castle cannot quite make out. He is not paying attention anymore. His mind is now back to the Book of Ruth. Once he counted off eight books and landed on Ruth, there was no doubt what Rourke was telling him. Ruth was the mastermind.

However, Rourke has told him that this book has another answer for Castle – and the riddle mocks him, now. He turns, without smiling, successful in pleading for Ruth's life, but now wondering what he has missed.

_**Back to Precinct 9 on Thursday July 18, in New York City, still roughly 10:15 a.m.**_

So this morning, Richard Castle sits in a chair that Detective Turner has pulled up next to his own desk, not knowing the déjà vu moments he has created for the private investigator. Castle stares at him briefly before blinking the memory away.

"So, they found the Rock?" Castle asks the detective.

"Yep," the detective answers, not looking up from his screen where he continues to type, entering in information for the case, while Castle considers what he has learned from Rourke, and what they have pieced together in the past few days.

The real Rock of God piece had been sent - by truck - to Dallas, Texas to a Craig Morrison. Morrison was a former associate of Roland Kaye's from his Austin start-up days. When Roland sold his start-up, Morrison had made roughly ten million in the sale, but had blown through the majority of it living the life of the overnight millionaire, which included frivolous spending and even worse investments. He has just under a million dollars left. More than most people see in a lifetime, but far less than what one who has tasted wealth will be satisfied with.

One of the outcomes of the start-up had been torrid affair with one Ruth Kaye for a year or so while the Kaye's were still in Austin. Needless to say, he and Ruth have kept in touch, as Ruth has found a way to visit Texas every so often. She had encouraged Roland to open a boy's center in Dallas.

"_Let's_ _give something back to the state that was so kind to us," _she had told him when they picked up and moved to New York.

Acting as the executor, she has used trips to visit the charity protect there as an opportunity to connect with Craig. When news came out that the Rock of God was coming to the museum in New York, Ruth saw an opportunity for a heist to put some serious money back in her pocket, and to get away from Roland Kaye.

More importantly, she also saw it as a chance to frame Serena Kaye, whom she secretly despised, for multiple reasons.

First, living in Serena's house, but calling it her own, was a constant reminder of their failure – hers and Roland's. Second, living essentially off an allowance set up by your sister-in-law? Absolutely not! Not even if said allowance is roughly three quarters of a million dollars annually.

And third? Third was that brat, Kevin. Having to play mother to the little boy was a constant reminder that she had lost her own son. And Serena's European incarceration had placed Roland's focus singularly on her son, Kevin. Even after her release, Roland has been in no hurry over the past few years to have a child of their own. It makes Ruth hate the woman – and to a lesser extent, her husband – even more.

So yeah, getting Serena out of her life, out of their lives, was not just a bonus – it was _the priority_. Ruth had recalled enough 'work conversations' with her sister-in-law to remember one thing that Serena had mentioned more than once about art theft, something she obviously knew more than a little about: The best heist is one where no one knows that a heist has even occurred. The best heist is when a switch has been pulled. Those cases? Rarely solved, and rarely even noticed.

The rest had been fairly easy, at least to Ruth's way of thinking.

She had donned a blonde wig, curly shoulder length hair with bangs, and dropped in green contact lenses. She didn't look exactly like Serena, but anyone who glanced her way would remember her general appearance once Serena's face was plastered across the news and social media. She had used her disguise to hang out at a city bar known to cater to cops - The Old Haunt. Unknown to Ruth, her choice of that bar had been the beginning of the end for her little plan.

She had no idea that the bar was owned by one Richard Castle, certified geek, sci-fi nut and technology nerd. The secret surveillance in the bar is flat out ridiculous. Once they knew where she had been, pulling surveillance had been easy. Her plan was to go there a few times for a few weeks, become known as a somewhat of a 'new regular', and pick a mark to play up to and obtain information from. The handsome Hispanic detective from the 12th Precinct turned out to be a nice choice. He was funny, he was easy on the eyes, and he liked to talk. Oh, did he like to talk. Her alibi was that she was writing a novel, her first. She needed inspiration for a scene where the antagonist wanted to fence some stolen goods, and began asking the detective about any cases he'd worked on that he could share with her. She had promised to change the names of course.

For Detective Javier Esposito, it was an easy trap to fall into. He'd already had years of experience with another writer who had hung around the precinct for inspiration for books. At least that had been the original reason. Regardless, finding a woman in a bar, claiming to be a fledgling author looking for inspiration seemed quite natural to the detective, and so – his guard down – he had found himself playing the role quite nicely for Ruth Kaye.

Whether it was the drinks, or the night of sex she had very happily considered an 'investment' in her plan, she managed to get a story out of him that included some characters down at a bar called the Irish Pub. That had led her to that bar, and eventually, after a couple of additional investments with its local patrons, one Finn Rourke.

Her initial meeting with Finn Rourke included a fifty-thousand dollar good faith deposit. She didn't give her name, but, feigning drunkenness, she did manage to 'slip up' and tell him she was in the insurance investigation business, and she was looking for a score on her own. This would point the finger squarely at her sister-in-law when the time came. In her disguise, she knew that Finn Rourke would see enough of a resemblance when he did his homework, and found Serena Kaye.

A week – and another two hundred thousand dollars later – Finn Rourke agreed to take on the project, and a couple of weeks later, when the Rock of God finally arrived via airplane from Europe, Rourke's team was there to pull the switch.

Castle smiles broadly, reminding himself to give his good friend from the 12th a nice ribbing – but he won't go too far, as Kevin Ryan has already shared that Esposito actually had grown fond of the woman, and had thought some sparks had been lit.

"He's taking it harder than I would have imagined," Ryan had told Castle just last night, back at the Old Haunt. Esposito had opted for a rain check, not ready for the kidding that he knew was coming his way.

"Did she really think she'd get away with this crazy plan?" Detective Turner asks, interrupting Castle's thoughts. He stops his typing for a moment to turn and look at his guest.

"Uh, she _did_ get away with it," Castle reminds him. "Remember?"

"That's right," Turner says, eyeing Castle with a nod. "Until _you_ happened to discover someone 'in the know' who had information to share."

"Hey, I'm a private investigator," Castle responds, almost too quickly. "Having a few sources is par for the course."

"You've been a private investigator less than a month," Turner counters, testily. "That's pretty damn good contact development, if you ask me."

"Then I won't ask," Castle replies, cheerily, hoping to diffuse the situation.

"You finished with that report, Turner?" a voice from an office yells.

"_Probably this precinct's version of Gates,"_ Castle thinks to himself, grateful for the save that has come from nowhere.

In the end, a call from Castle – due to his 'in the know source' had allowed Turner to contact the Dallas Police Department, and a day later, a search warrant had been issued for the Kaye Boys Center in Dallas. They found the Rock of God in a storage unit on the campus. Within the hour, Craig Morrison, thinking that Ruth had betrayed him, had cut a deal, giving up Ruth Kaye as the mastermind behind everything. In addition to the work of art, they found a computer loaded with a GPS application that had been tracking the movements of Serena's car. Another couple of days, and it would have been over, as Morrison had already worked things out with an underground auction house to take on the piece for almost ten million dollars.

For Serena Kaye, who has remained downstairs in the lobby of the police station, it is not at all a good situation. A little boy – _her_ little boy – is losing who someone he believes to be his mother. Sitting next to her is her stunned and shattered brother, Roland Kaye, fresh off the plane from the Bahamas.

Serena is just happy that Kevin didn't witness any of the details. Once they landed and came home, Serena and Richard Castle were there, waiting in the den. Serena introduced Kevin to the pretty red-haired girl who had caught the little boy's attention.

"Kevin, this is Alexis – she is Mr. Castle's daughter. She's going to watch you for a few hours while your daddy and mommy and I go out to grab a bite to eat," she had lied.

With that, Alexis had run upstairs with the little boy who was anxious to show the pretty girl his toys in his bedroom. Castle had smiled and shared a wink and a silent 'thank you' with his daughter, then glanced down at his cell phone and sent the text to Detective Turner.

_CASTLE: Good to go_

Seconds later, the reply came.

_TURNER: On our way up._

Needless to say, it was a frantic ride to the precinct for Roland Kaye, who rode in Castle's car with Serena, listening to the details of the heist from Castle.

Far more perilous, however, was Ruth Kaye's ride, handcuffed in the backseat of the police cruiser with Officer Gomez and Detective Turner. They had shared her Miranda rights with her, and essentially very little else. No details of what they had found out, how they found it out. Nothing at all. The clencher, for them, had been when she had asked if "that bastard Craig" had given her up. That sealed the deal, matching the hypothesis that had been presented by Castle.

"I'm guessing you don't need me anymore," Castle tells Turner, who grabs his coffee cup and takes a sip before answering.

"I'm sure you know the drill, Mr. Castle," he tells him, his attention back on his computer screen. "Stay in the area. I'm sure we will be talking again."

Castle doesn't wait for the man to change his mind. A few seconds later, he is at the stairwell, taking the stairs down to the lobby area, deciding against the elevator. When he opens the door downstairs and steps out, he sees the totally broken brother and sister, sitting side by side, their eyes a blank expression.

"Serena . . . Roland . . . I am so sorry," he tells them as he approaches. Immediately recognizing that the words are not nearly enough - and that no words will be - he takes his leave, walking quickly to the door, and exits into the morning sun. He gets half a block down the wide sidewalk and is ready to jog across the street to the parking garage when he hears his name being called.

"Richard," she calls after him. She wears a light tan summer dress, with blue and green floral patterns, and flat sandals, looking as radiant as ever.

He stops walking, and takes a few steps toward the approaching woman, hands in his pockets. She doesn't stop, but instead walks right into his arms, burying her cheek in his chest, her arms around his waist, inside his own arms.

"Thank you," she whispers. "For everything."

"I'm sorry, Serena," he tells her. "Believe me, I had no idea at all that it would –"

"It's not your fault, Richard," she tells him, and then adds, "Just when I thought I had my life finally moving in the right direction." Her voice trails off. There are no tears, no sobbing. This is an angry woman in his arms right now.

"You _are_ moving in the right direction," he tells her. "You have your son back. Okay, so it didn't happen the way I'm sure you have dreamed it would, but hey – life decides some things for us, y'know?"

She pulls her head away, nodding it quickly, and removes her arms from around his chest. She folds her arms in front of her, and glances at the taxi cabs that pass noisily by.

"Roland and I have to figure this out," she tells him. Seeing his surprised look, she explains. "I have to think about Kevin right now. He is all that counts. Can he lose a mother and a father on the same day? Can I do that to him? Can I just take him away from Roland? He loves him like his own son. Is it easier for Kevin to just continue living with daddy and Aunt Serena? I just don't know."

Understanding her dilemma, and respecting her focus on putting what is best for Kevin first, he nods his head, thinking out loud.

"I know of a very good therapist, someone I used to visit when Meredith left Alexis and I," he tells her. "Perhaps she can be of use to you," he tells her.

"Dr. Karen Anderson," she smiles, appreciating one of the few times she has something over on him. "I've already been seeing her for a couple of years."

"How did you know I've seen Karen?" Castle asks, now concerned about patient privacy.

"Her waiting room, Richard," she smiles sadly. "Coffee table has four, five of your books, all with hand-written notes on the front," and he smiles easily, never having considered that his therapist would put his books out on display. He wonders idly if even that violates their privacy, but quickly decides that there are far more important things in life happening right now. Anyway, he has lots of fans who probably have his autographed books on coffee tables somewhere. He brushes the thought away.

"Anyway, you're right," Serena tells him. "A conversation with Dr. Anderson is probably just what I . . . actually what Roland and I could use."

"She _is_ the best," Castle reminds her.

The two stand silent for a few more seconds, Castle looking away at the passing traffic now, before Serena begins to say her goodbye.

"I will send Alexis home as soon as we get back," she promises, and Castle simply nods.

"Thank you," she finally says. "I'm not used to having someone I can trust," she says, stepping away.

"That's a good reason not to be a stranger, Serena," he tells her. "Because I can say the same thing."

"I'm sure you can," she says. She begins to walk back to the precinct, and Castle stands and watches her walk away. She only takes a few steps before she turns one last time.

"Call me" she says. It's not a question.

"Absolutely."

"Soon," she tells him, and with that, she is gone. Her head high, feigning a confidence she does not have at the moment, reeling from the betrayal of her sister-in-law, and – God help her – trying desperately not to wonder if her own brother didn't suspect anything. Anything at all.

No, she's not very trusting right now, and with good reason.


	21. Chapter 21

**The Wonder: Chapter 21**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Same Day, Friday July 19th, in Washington, D.C., at 6:20 p.m.**_

Former Detective and now Federal Agent Kate Beckett is alone at home her D.C. apartment. Ernie, the Verizon field representative has just left her home a few minutes ago. At least that is his alias. Ernie is actually a free-lancer who sets up secure networks for important people who can afford his services – the type of services that pretty much ensure no one is tapping in on your conversations, be they voice, data or video. Jordan Shaw has sent Ernie to Kate's home to get her set up properly. Ernie had done this previously for Jordan after a particularly rough federal case left Jordan feeling exposed at home, for her family.

This was one of the items on the checklist that Jordan and Kate came up with a week ago during Kate's stay at Jordan's home. Jordan affectionately dubbed this the Dragonquest, which Kate immediately took a liking to, given the inside name she knows that one Senator Beckett occasionally goes by. Making sure that Kate could have secure conversations and transmissions was step one, and one that Kate hadn't considered herself. She nods her head, reminding herself exactly how fortunate she is to have Jordan Shaw as a friend. Once again, she finds herself realizing that had it not been for a serial nut-job named Scott Dunn, their paths would never have crossed.

Now, to test things out.

She brings her iPad back to life, and connects to the new secure network in her apartment. She clicks open the FaceTime application and calls her Chicago friend. After five or six rings, she sees the CONNECTING CALL message. Seconds later, the smiling face of the FBI profiler appears.

"Everything set up?" Jordan asks her.

"Yep, I'm just trying it out. You are my first call," Kate says, smiling.

"Ernie does good work," Jordan comments, biting into a graham cracker.

"Still eating well, I see," Kate says with a chuckle. "Does Jenna know you are taking her crackers?"

"Jenna knows she doesn't buy the groceries," Jordan counters, and both women find themselves laughing for a few moments. Both know this conversation is about to get serious. Both know that they are placing themselves into the modern day coliseum, and they are the sport, the gladiators.

Kate, for her part, realizes that except for Jordan, she truly is on her own. She has left New York, but done so in such a way that she has also left her friends, left her partner, left her lover. She realizes now that she has truly – and inadvertently – cut the cord with them. The fact that not _just one_ of them, but instead, _each of them_ harbors some resentment towards her helps her see how differently she could have – should have – done things.

When Javier had returned her call last weekend, she knew bad news was coming. Had he and Kevin been willing to help, there would have been no 'let us skull it over' from her friends at the 12th. The fact that neither man jumped at the chance to help her made her realize that it wasn't just Castle that she abandoned. Jordan, for her part, found it difficult to see how Kate did not recognize this sooner. Fortunately, however, the woman is not judgmental, but simply pragmatic.

"I don't think any of them begrudge you your decision, Kate," Jordan had said to her. "I do think, however, that somehow you executed this decision in way that left a bad taste in a lot of people's mouths. And like I suggested to you regarding Castle, in retrospect you should have reached out to them personally, with no other agenda other than to say hello for that first call."

"I'm running out of friends, Jordan," Kate had lamented to her then. "This is all my doing. I have to fix this – with Javi, with Kevin. And especially with Castle."

"You need to remember that it's all part of Bracken's plan," Jordan had reminded Kate. "He knows you, he has known you for a long, long time. And he is playing you, predicting your reactions, predicting your decisions. So far, he has been spot on about you, Kate. He's managed to split you from your support. He's been right about everything so far."

"Then we are going to have to trip him up – for my sake personally as well as professionally," Kate had said then.

"So what do we do now?" Jordan had asked her, surprising her.

"We?"

"Well, I'm in this with you, now, Kate," Jordan had told her. "I know exactly how you feel, regarding your mother. Exactly." Kate had nodded, grateful to her friend.

"So, I'm in this. I will do what I can from here, but just know that you aren't alone in this."

"Thanks, Jordan," Kate had told her. "This means a lot." She realized that she was getting something of a second chance. Jordan was going out on a very thin and fragile limb for her.

So now, tonight, she sits at home, on a video call with her friend, as they plan out her next step, as agreed upon back at Jordan's home. Not the ideal way to spend a Friday night. But things have, indeed, changed.

"I thought about what you said," Kate begins now, watching her friend munch on her crackers and milk. "You were right. I can't go back to New York. Not yet," she says sadly. In truth, all she really wants to do is rush back there, go straight to Richard Castle's loft and do whatever is necessary to fix things. More than anything, that's what she wants to do.

"I know it's hard, Kate," Jordan tells her, smiling weakly. "I know you want to just run back to Manhattan, to Castle. But you know why you can't do that – not yet."

"I know, Jordan," she tells her friend, wiping her brows with her thumb and two fingers. "I just-"

"This is the most selfless thing you can do, Kate. It's the right thing to do. Don't question this," Jordan warns her.

She knows the profiler is correct. Senator Bracken is starting to make his move, to make his play, and he has decided that the best way he could ensure success is to separate Kate Beckett and Richard Castle. To separate Kate Beckett from her support team, her friends. And Jordan is also correct about how well Bracken knows her.

Somehow, the bastard just knew that Kate would muck it up, would leave New York on difficult terms so that her friends – and even the man she claimed to love – would end up estranged, and hesitant to jump in and help her. Somehow he knew that if he gave her an out of what appeared to be the perfect relationship, she would take it. In retrospect, she cannot believe how stupid her decision has been. Not in that she took this stupid job – but that she gave up everything – needlessly – in order to get it.

Finally, she also knows – and this is most important – that right now her adversary is content to play chess, and he considers her to be nothing more than a piece on his game board. She sees this now very clearly. But if she returns to New York, then the dragon side of her enemy is likely to make an appearance. If that happens, then she can expect him to return to the scorched earth methods he has previously employed – knifings, snipers, assassins.

No, going back to New York puts her friends squarely in danger. It puts the man she loves in danger.

"I never should have called Esposito and Ryan," she tells Jordan, again, for the fourth or fifth time in the past week. "It was selfish of me to ask them to step back into the crosshairs," she sighs sadly, once again disappointed with herself.

"And I know I can't go back," she finally says, a tear streaking down her cheek. Jordan feel for her, truly feels for her. She knows how difficult this is for Kate, and how much more difficult it is going to get. She knows this is the best, least selfish thing Kate Beckett has done in years – and she knows how much it will likely cost her friend, long-term.

Kate knows that she is keeping Richard Castle safe. She also knows that she is putting more time between them, and time heals all wounds. By the time this is over, she will have either defeated Bracken, or be dead. Regardless, in either case, Richard Castle will have moved on. Time will ensure that.

"True," Jordan says, now pushing her snack away, and moving a strand of hair from her face. "But Kate, understand this. Bracken has made a mistake. A big one," she continues, seeing the hope barely crease across her friend's face.

"He has underestimated you, Kate. He thinks he has stripped you away from your all of your support, your team. But he has underestimated the friends you have," she tells her. "You and I will hold the fort until your other friends return to the fold. And they will return, Kate. All of them."

Kate nods, wiping the tear away, beginning to draw strength from the conversation. It is not the first time they have had this conversation. Jordan is repeating what they have already discussed, what Kate already knows.

"For now, you just have to stay in D.C., and just play the role. Act like you know nothing. Go on the trips they assign you. Solve the cases – not for the Feds – but for the people you are supposed to be helping," Jordan reminds her. "Staying in D.C. allows you to operate under the radar, finding clues, discovering that which they don't want you to know. We will uncover this."

"Thanks Jordan," Kate gives her. "I know. I know. And I appreciate this."

"Has Eric called yet?" Jordan asks, changing the subject.

"Not yet," Kate responds.

"No matter, he will. He's nothing more than a piece on Bracken's board also. Remember that," Jordan says. "And remember this, too Kate. This is a marathon. This is not a sprint. Bracken understands this point very, very well. You get this, don't you, Kate? He has been running this race for over a decade. He understands this is a marathon. Do you?"

"Yes," Kate says with determination. "I know –"

"Can you pace yourself," Jordan interrupts. "Can you run the race? Because if you can't Kate, then you and I are dead women walking," Jordan warns, and her face can't hide the small sliver of fear there. Jordan isn't afraid of Bracken per se. She is more afraid that Kate won't be able to handle the long race. She is more afraid that Kate will start sprinting too early, wanting a short cut. A short cut will kill them both. A short cut puts Jordan's family in danger.

"I need to know," Jordan continues. "Can I trust you with this?"

"Trust me, Jordan," Kate tells her. "You can. There is no rush. I've already lost a lot – an awful lot now. I have to make it worth the loss," Kate says, and then adds, "and I have to get back that which I have lost."

Jordan nods, satisfied for now that Kate is of the right frame of mind for this. She knows this is difficult for her friend. She knows her friend feels alone. She knows her friend feels abandoned, even though she is the one who left. Jordan sees a lot of herself in Kate Beckett, and finds herself wondering, not for the first time, how she and Kate could have had such similar backgrounds, but taken such different paths. She realizes the dark place that she herself could be in, had she taken Kate's path, made Kate's decisions.

Suddenly, Kate's phone rings.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit," Kate says, the frustration and nervousness showing on her face. Jordan knows who it must be.

"Is it him?" she asks.

"Yes," Kate nods – not wanting to answer the phone.

"This is good fortune that he calls now. Kate, remember – this is a marathon," Jordan tells her quickly.

"I'm not sure I can do this," Kate admits.

"Yes you can. Run the long race, detective," Jordan tells her, intentionally referring to her with the old, more familiar title. The title she knows that Kate Beckett finds comfort and confidence in.

Kate nods her head, forcing a smile, forcing a change in her demeanor. On the fourth ring, she answers.

"Hello, this is Beckett," she greets him, answering the call on speakerphone so that Jordan, still video-connected, can follow the call. Eric calling right at this moment while she and Jordan are Face-Timing is an unexpected edge that she plans to take full advantage of.

She won't let on that she knows it is him, that she still has his contact information stored. She had kept it for very pragmatic reasons. She knows that not everyone has a billionaire philanthropist in their contact list, so you don't just delete that kind of person. Once again, she is glad for the decision. But he doesn't need to know this. She will let him think that he was just a passing interest in her life. Just another case. Because in truth, that's all Eric Vaughn has been to her, despite her momentary slip a few months ago.

"Kate," Eric says in greeting, putting as much charm into the single word as he can.

"_Oh he is good,"_ Kate reminds herself.

"This is Eric Vaughn," he reminds her, knowing that she will recognize his voice. The fact that she did not greet him with his name is a bit of a surprise. He figured she would still have his contact information, and know it was him calling. That she does not is a surprise that he makes a mental note about. This may not be quite as easy as he anticipated.

"Eric. Well hello, Eric," Kate feigns, and she sees Jordan smiling at her on her iPad screen, nodding her head. "How have you been?"

"I've been good, really good," he tells her, altering his tactics slightly. "I heard that you had left New York. I also heard that you departed alone," he says with false sympathy. "Honestly, Kate, that surprised me beyond measure. Forgive me, but I did not think anyone would be stupid enough to let you out of their sight."

Jordan rolls her eyes, and just the simple gesture gives Kate confidence. She wants to be angry at how she now knows she is being played. That he thinks she is so gullible – worse, that in the past, she actually _was_ that gullible. But she watches her friend on the video screen, reminded that she has a role to play.

"Well, that's in the past," she says, trying to display sadness. It turns out that it isn't all that difficult, given the fact that for now, it is a true statement. "What can I do for you, Eric?"

"It's what I can do for you, Kate," he tells her, still oozing charm. She can imagine the smile on the other end of the phone, only now realizing what a sham it is. She is ready to kick herself all over again. Fortunately she is listening to Eric and watching Jordan at the same time. Jordan has been writing something, and now picks up the piece of paper and shows the words to Kate.

_Stay on task. You can do this._

Smiling and nodding, Kate perks up – ready to do battle. Because that is exactly what this is – a battle. She realizes this now.

"Let me see you," Eric continues. "I'm in town for the weekend. Let's get together for dinner tomorrow."

"I don't know, Eric," Kate responds, pleased with the fact that so far, this is precisely how Jordan predicted the call would go. "I'm not really ready to jump back into anything just yet."

"I wouldn't expect you to, Kate," he tells her. "I imagine you are still hurting a bit," he continues, drawing yet another eye-roll from Jordan. Jordan's reactions are really helping Kate see through the mirage. She is thankful that fate has placed the two together.

"Consider it just two friends getting reacquainted, Kate," Eric says, growing with confidence, knowing – or believing – he is getting through. "I am sure we both have so much to discuss."

For a moment, had Jordan not been on the video call with her, Kate knows she would weaken, would fall for this. There is just something about him that makes you want to believe him. She realizes now it is just his gift – and probably why he is so successful, so wealthy. Glancing at her smiling friend one more time, Kate drops the final shoe.

"Eric, that sounds nice," she says, and she can imagine his victorious smile on the other end, before she blows everything up after pausing for a second or two. "But I think I need to take a rain check. I'm just not ready for much of anything right now."

Kate then, as planned, lightly wraps her knuckles on the table, feigning a visitor at her door.

"There's someone at the door, Eric," she lies, barely able to contain her smile. "I need to run. But call me the next time you are in town, okay?"

"Uh . . . okay, I will do that Kate," the billionaire says, not quite able to mask his surprise at the rejection. It is something he is not used to. Worse – the senator will not be pleased.

"Thanks for calling Eric," Kate tells him, and then disconnects the call. She puts her phone down, glances at Jordan in the video, and both women smile, and raise their hands in a virtual high five to one another.

"Could not have gone better," Jordan tells her, almost chuckling. "He really is pretty predictable," she continues.

"I can't believe that went down exactly as you said it would," Kate reflects. "_I know you're lonely, I can't believe he let you out of his sight, it's just a friendly dinner," _she says, mimicking the words out loud of the philanthropist from just seconds ago.

"It's what I do, Kate," Jordan says without arrogance. "I've gotten to be pretty good at it," she reminds her with a smile, and Kate is grateful that the woman is simply speaking the truth.

"Are you sure, Jordan?" Kate suddenly asks, and Jordan knows what she is thinking about. It had taken more than a little coercing on her part to convince Kate not to accept whatever dinner or lunch offer Eric gave her.

"I mean, wouldn't it be better to have said yes, to let him think I am falling for his pitch," Kate asks. "I could get closer, find out more –"

"We've been through this, Kate," Jordan tells her, not testily but firmly. "Right now, everything – absolutely _everything_ – has been going according to Bracken's plan. He moves a piece, then another, then another. He considers you predictable, Kate – hence he just moves you here and there. Now, he will know you are quite as predictable as he has believed you to be. He can't just move you indiscriminately. And you have done this without alerting him to the fact that you know something. You have just come off as someone who is hurting, who doesn't want to jump into anything new, whether friendship or romance. You have done the unexpected. That's what we need you to do more of," she reminds her friend.

"You're right, you're right," Kate tells her. "I'm just not good at this, I usually just react. I'm not good at this –"

"But _I am_," Jordan reminds her. "And we're going to get you there, Kate," Jordan continues, and then breaks into laughter.

"What's so funny?" Kate asks, now confused.

"I'm just thinking," Jordan begins, "I'm trying to imagine the uncomfortable phone call that is going on right about now," she says, and Kate now joins her, chuckling.

"Amen to that," Kate says. "I'd love to be a fly on the wall to hear that conversation," and both women laugh again.

"Wish we could, Kate. It would have been beneficial to hear that one," Jordan agrees. "Perhaps we can correct that for the future," she smiles.

"Is what you are thinking even legal, Jordan?" Kate asks, her legal sensibilities kicking in. She was, after all, a cop for a long time. An uncorrupted cop at that.

"Is murder legal?" Jordan asks her. "You just leave that to me," the profiler tells her. "Remember, this is a marathon," she says. A few minutes later, the two women sign off, agreeing to connect again in the morning.

"I am curious what his next move will be," Jordan says, in closing.

"When do you think that will be?" Kate asks.

"Sooner than you think," Jordan responds. "Sooner than you think."

_**Same Evening, Friday July 19th, in Washington, D.C., at 6:45 p.m.**_

"What do you mean she said 'no?'", Senator Bracken asks, the menace in his voice intentionally showing through.

"She is hurting – at least that is how it appears," Eric Vaughn tells the senator. He has been dreading this conversation, and had to compose himself for a few minutes before calling. He knows that his role in this was considered critical by the senator, and he won't be pleased with this unexpected development. He is proven correct.

"She said she isn't interested in jumping into anything right now," he says, quickly adding, "but she _did_ tell me to call again the next time I am in town." He hopes this last piece of news is a bit of an olive branch to the man on the other end.

It is not.

"I'm not interested in the _next time_, Eric," Bracken says softly, causing the hairs on the back of Vaughn's neck to stand at attention. "I asked you to do a simple thing – I thought this is what you do," Bracken adds. "I am disappointed, Mr. Vaughn."

"Senator, we can-"

"_We_ can do nothing," Bracken interrupts, correcting him. "Let me think about this," he says, but then adds, more thinking to himself than talking to his caller. "Perhaps a more direct approach with my former detective is in order."

Vaughn is searching for something to say, while knowing that his next words could be very important. He is no fool – he is wealthy, he is handsome, he is powerful – but he knows that with this man, he is nothing more than a chess piece. Not a pawn, but a piece none-the-less. He knows that this man considers him to be his Knight. But he is still just a piece. And he realizes that he has let the man down. He immediately thinks about the man's Queen. He knows – more than anything else – that he does not want a visit from his Queen. That is not a move than anyone survives.

Bracken interrupts his thoughts.

"No problem, Eric. Plan B," Bracken tells him.

"I'm sorry, Senator," Eric offers him, quickly.

"As am I, Eric," Bracken says, and Vaughn's heart jumps for a moment. "But things happen. There is no reason to throw the baby out with the bath water," the senator says, knowing he is giving a visible reprieve to the billionaire. He, too, subscribes to Kate Beckett's thinking: You don't just throw away a billionaire. At least not yet.

"I will get in contact with you in a few days. Let me sort a few things out," Bracken says, and hangs up the call, leaving a slightly relieved but still nervous Eric Vaughn on the other end of a disconnected call.

"Unexpected," Senator William Bracken says aloud to himself. "I wonder if she suspects anything," he muses aloud. He considers this for a moment, then changes direction. No, she can't suspect anything – he's been careful. Perhaps he has just underestimated her feelings for the novelist. Perhaps she _is_ still reeling, as Eric Vaughn has suggested. It is not the reaction he anticipated from Beckett. Still, it can be used to his benefit as well.

"_Yes, I can use this to my advantage,"_ he smiles to himself. _ "There is more than one way to keep you occupied, my former detective."_

He considers his options for a few more moments, and then takes out a key, and reaches under his desk to unlock a secret compartment. He retrieves a burner phone used for just this purpose – for activating pieces in his game. He opens the contacts and finds who he is looking for.

Four rings later, a voice answers at the other end.

"This is Bishop," the voice says in greeting.

"Hello Bishop," Senator Bracken smiles. He likes his games, and he enjoys the myriad of pieces that he has assembled over the years. He learned long ago that this is a country that is very comfortable with isolated events, with single, crazy man theories. But conspiracies? Actual planned events under the control of one man, or a small group? No, this is something that most people are not comfortable with. That is a conclusion that most people avoid.

And that is why it works so well for him. His pieces play their role, all for his greater good, while the public at large sees them as simply isolated, unrelated events.

Bishop is one such piece.

"Consider yourself activated, Bishop. I need a few actions to keep someone out of my hair for a bit," Bracken tells the man.

"Who is the mark?" the voice asks.

"Someone you know – someone I had you test a few years ago. Kate Beckett."

The senator smiles as he hears the soft chuckle from the other end. Scott Dunn has been hoping, waiting for another shot at the detective for a couple of years now. Things didn't go quite as he had planned that last time, but Bracken had been pleased. Bracken had learned so much about the detective, and the idiot writer who kept tagging along. That he might get another shot at her causes him to smile.

"I look forward to it," Dunn tells his boss. "Rules of engagement?"

"No harm to her – not just yet. But as the last time, pull her into your games. The last time was just to test her reactions. This time – just keep her busy for a couple of weeks."

"With pleasure," Dunn tells him, hanging up the call.

"_I'm sure it is, my friend,"_ Bracken smiles to himself. _"I'm sure it is."_

**A/N: **This concludes this particular storyline, establishing a new AU where Kate has left New York, left her support infrastructure in shambles, and is now (with the exception of Jordan Shaw) on her own. The next story in this AU, entitled **Hunt the Hunter**, will pick up where this has left off, in a week or two.

My thanks to everyone who has stuck around for this story. I am fully aware that many readers on these boards are looking for Caskett stories. Some of my stories are Caskett, some are not, and some might be. For me, however, I have long wanted to read a story about redemption for Kate Beckett. Like any human being, Kate has made some good decisions and some bad decisions. But in Season 5, her behavior, the decisions the writers had her make at the end of that season defied logic. And Castle was no better. I believe the only reason we as viewers didn't hold the writers to task was because they had Castle completely roll over, and propose – a response to her actions that no man that I know of – not one single one - would have taken given her words at the time. So I have long wanted to read – or write – a story that doesn't just sweep Kate's decisions under the rug, but instead forces her to deal with them, and causes her to become a better, stronger character for it. So the next story in this AU deals primarily with Kate Beckett – and her road to redemption – something that TV never gave us. And while I – like most people – love seeing Kate and Castle together, I also love the idea of her picking herself up, reinventing herself on her own, without depending on a man. Call it my dad complex, as I have two daughters who I would hate to ever have to _need_ a man to be successful. Having a man, and _needing_ a man are two different things.

At some point down the road in this AU, Kate and Rick will definitely reconnect – either as friends or otherwise. But for now, each of them has their own separate journey to walk – a journey that will make both stronger, should they survive it of course.

Thanks again to all. See you soon.


End file.
